A poem about a kind of love by David Tombale: Threading the needle

Threading the needle is a bit complex. I had to describe it as kind of love poem because in some ways the relationship it narrates is slightly like love but taken altogether what it emerges is something far less romantic.
Threading the needle

I thread the needle through my eye as
I look for her inside the seething dark,
The crying skies look beautiful in the
Background of our lives when I’m holding her,
Teasing nipples through her brassiere,
Tasting salt and sweat and odd regrets.
She won’t let me kiss her lips, her lust
Almost haunting, slightly sad,
Her legs, her hips, I spread them wide and
Lose my mind, yet that absence,
That invisible that makes me sick,
Chest inhales and exhales, sweet breath
Still tickles these tiny hairs, now quickly over,
Now she’s looking at me hand laid out,
The paper falls, my money gone
And once more I sleep alone.
 

A philosophical love poem by David Tombale: A philosophy of love

A philosophy was my answer to a challenge I was once given to think of three questions I would ask just before I died. For some reason what it meant to be in love was the only question I felt I'd really want answered if I had no more time left to me.
A philosophy of love

What does it mean to be in love?

Tis to feel a spark begin in earnest
Darkness that’s flamed by passion’s
Speeding arrow piercing heart

Filling lungs and
Flooding palms

That mumbling,
That clumsy fervent speech
That clusters around the
Edges of twining souls neath a
Smiling moon

In spite of tempests 
That slam the shutters,
That shook the doors.  

A sad evocative love poem by David Tombale: You and I

You and I came out of my frustration at my cowardice when it came to a girl I'd had the biggest, biggest crush on since I first started liking girls. She was my ideal, beautiful, confident but a little self conscious as well, every girl I've chased since was always a reflection of her.
You and I

You have come once more dour misery,
you and I alone have said the words
that I alone would not utter, her
name I whisper into the early morning
winds, only to hear the owl scream
them to the night.

A shadow falls across my heart, her
lips brush against mine, and then
I wake; cruel morning sun, you have
torn me from my lovely dream, you
have brought me back to this, to
longing, my secret I share with my
Misery and hear him laugh at my
discontent, have her he laughs,
have her.

Should I say her name? I have only
Misery as my witness, should I?
Say it he laughs, it shall not
change our fate, I catch a glimpse
from the corner of my eye, she
walks on past, her fragrance follows
in her entourage, a servant like
my heart. My heart I've sold into
servitude, sad betrayer say her
name one last time

Natasha.

A poem about unemployment by David Tombale: It happened here

It happened here is about more than unemployment it's also about arrogance. We have all read about the rates of unemployment and poverty in some countries for years and it has instilled this idea that it could never happen to us. With the global downturn that all changed and this piece marks the swift turnaround in public perception forced by circumstances.
It happened here

They prowl the streets in ones and twos.
They come here often, heads swivelling
like owls constantly searching for some
rustle, some sound that disturbs the silence
of the forest quiet, their arms swing up
and down little briefcases balanced
precariously on the tips of fingers, gentle
reminders that shows the wealth of their
best just not good enough, the doors rebuff
them like the words of hardened parents
their tired eyes despairing but the papers
fall outside petrol pumps and grocery
stores, flipping through, tracing words with
heavy heart and then sometimes the happy
roar of one more successful war, the roars
grow lesser as the days wear on, the bodies
encroaching upon each other overflowing
these dirty streets,
the stench it seems of broken dreams,
these papers decaying amongst academic
graveyards but what is left to the drifting
dregs that struggle on like sheep?
What is left but too many doors to
trouble and no more promises,
with us no more promises just a leftover
hope that is growing old. 

A sad life poem about my city by David Tombale: A story of my city

A story of my city is not my first attempt to reflect upon my experiences in the city where I've lived almost all my life but it is the first that got away from me. In the end my anger, frustration and disappointment at what this growing metropolis embodies took over my pen.
A story of my city

This is the story of the city that raised me
oddly questing for meaning amongst its debris
so I’m just another reject, busy philosophizing
about the worth of stars while the rocks they
peddle underhanded laugh in silence that
sounds like money.

This is a story I have not forgotten of
broken bicycles and ugly mutts that stripped me clean,
my scars are funny, formed into a map of buildings
and city streets that rise and fall and circle round
to thumb their eye at us, is that why I see my
cousin’s blood after the highway'd sprayed it
from traffic light to traffic light?

This is a story I read aloud to my little niece,
her face in the midst of bawling, perhaps her
uncle’s voice took on a tone of violence?
Could you blame me? The sounds outside my
door are an ominous susurration that tells of
things to come while I’m only standing here
still waiting for the sun.  

A poem about politics in Africa by David Tombale: Letter to Nigeria

This poem was written for a contest that asked for a piece about Nigeria. Instead I used it as a springboard to express my impressions of the current dynamic between developed countries and the growing continent of Africa. In a word it is about how neocolonialism is perceived by those under its heel.
Letter to Nigeria

Nigeria they whisper sad songs of what might
Never be but they never sing, sad songs in
Quiet rooms because there are guns oustide
This house, they politick like rockstars, seeking
Fame amist the rubble, shaking money trees,
Shaking money trees, dear Nigeria they speak
Of you in board rooms and drink wine made
From poppy fields while your people weep.

Tell me of your people, strong as ivory, as
Large as oaks, they love the smell of you, the
Sights, the sounds, but the light skinned ones
Tell light skinned stories about dollars and
Deutschmarks, of barrels of liquid gold they
Buy for pennies while your buildings burn
And age, they speak too much of profits
While the television sells visions of prosperity
That never reached your shores, we cry to
Nigeria but all your hear are gunshots and
Politicking, always politicking as the cameras
Snap the aftermath with your buildings still
Burning down. 

A poem about regret by David Tombale: A girl in Sunderland

A girl in Sunderland reflects upon a relationship I had with a female poet. It touches upon the mistakes I made and the wasted hopes that arose after the relationship's end.
A girl in Sunderland

I met a girl in Sunderland who wrote me letters
And poems, it's a shame I didn't mean it, I didn't
Mean all those letters I answered back, promising
Marriage and all of that, I met a girl in Sunderland
So beautiful, so strong, she loved me, I look back
At it and know, I wish, I only wish I'd loved her more,
But I love her still! I cried but in truth I was alone,
Talking only to these mirrors as if they could hear
My woe, I kept her letters, and I reread them every
Saturday as I sat at my window watching as it
Rained, she loved me I know that now, that
Girl from Sunderland, I only wish, I wish I'd loved
Her more, maybe then I'd have her now, white
Picket fence, a small dog, maybe a little boy or
Girl but those are just memories and images,
Leaves upon the river, I sit there at its bank
And watch them float away and lay some of those
Letters I wrote but never sent beside them, like
Paper ships perhaps sailing to lands I'll never
See, and maybe one might find that girl and she'll
Think of me, think of us and perhaps come on home. 

A poem about child soldiers by David Tombale: The slippery wheel

The slippery wheel addresses my need to work out my thoughts about child soldiers and what motivates a child to become one. It's always been one of the most enduring image in my mind, that of a little boy cradling a rifle in his hands. It's a sad enough sight to require at least one piece.
The slippery wheel

Slippery like the conscience of a soldier
Garbed in wreaths and flags, slippery like
The wheel that turns the trades of industry,
Slippery but never hard like the soil we
Dug to bury his broken body;

Twelve years old and I want to ask what
Are you doing here? Twelve years old
And shooting guns, little boy what are
You doing here? But his broken body only
Stares back at me, no words to speak just
Blood and bone and things he will never
Be;

He lies there so silently, so still, so much
So that I know he’s dead but there are
No echoes, no six gun salute for child
Soldiers buried in jungles in remote
Corners that no one sees;

There are no sound bites or flashbulbs just
This flesh slowly dying, food for maggots
And time and the language of violence, little
Boys what are you doing here? Playing hide
And seek with bullets and landmines while
Your fathers fertilize the soil with their tears
And blood and your mothers, only mothers
Of children they have no love for, forced by
The seed of vile men spurred by speeches
Of hate and I find myself asking once more
What are we doing here?

A poem about art and love by David Tombale: My music

My music as a piece was about losing my need to write and how I found my reason again in loving someone. There's always something uplifting about putting your faith in someone and finding your talent reaffirmed.
My music

Riddle me this and
Riddle me that

There came a time when
Even my pen became a riddle
As deep as the meaning I
Failed to see in life

Cold mornings as I sat
Upon my balcony
Holding conversations
With the sun as yellow rain
Fell upon my thirsty skin and
I laughed about the sound of
Seagulls coming from the
Distance

So I am here now
Living by the beach

My music the crash of waves
Upon the rocks

I do not write these days
All my poetry reserved for
The portraits I paint upon
The sky

I do not write these days
Except for those soliloquies
I leave upon her skin

I fell in love with love
Lost myself in feeling until
The day I rose from our satin
And a symphony began inside
My mind

I've been trying to write it
Down these past three days
But the pages are running
Out

There is a symphony happening
Here and I'm just beginning
To learn to dance.

A poem about life and memory by David Tombale: Fallen down

Fallen down is a chronicle of memories and a sense of loss I sometimes associate with growing up. I think we all have those lingering thoughts of relatives who passed away and a sense of home and belonging we took for granted as children.
Fallen down

I can't find that place I knew
Where the faces all look the
Same

I can't find it cos there's
No one waiting there

My grandfather's old rocking chair
Still grinds back and forth without
Him-

Only the wind resting against
It's back and my uncles they've
Been gone for many years now

 But their voices still echo down
The corridors resurrecting the
Ghosts of charcoaled meat and
Laughter

My cousin's laughter before
He wrapped his car around a
Traffic light

Damn why do those thoughts
Choose to call upon this boy
Tonight?

They tug upon my heart strings
Reminding me that I haven't been
At home in eight long years

I can't find my way back there

Where we were family,
When things were great

I can't find it cos there's no one
There who's waiting-

So I wander on alone
In search of a place that
Is not there

Full of specters I will
Always love in a home
That's long since fallen down.

A humorous life poem by David Tombale: Homilies mean for my son

This poem is meant to be both humorous and yet serious in that it's meant as an instruction to both fathers and sons. I've always thought that children could learn more from their parents if the subject matter was delivered light heartedly and that in essence is what this poem is about. The most important lesson of course that any parent could pass down to their child is to live regrets be damned.
Homilies meant for my son

Trickle down, better yet rain on me.
I have entreated the years to try their
tricks on me for I like Homer sing only
of dreams, of Apollo, Achilles and the
magic that goes down that old crooked
road but my back remains ready, my fists
lifted to challenge the moon and the
laughter, the laughter lifts me spread
wings resting softly on my aging skin,
to the sun, to the sun I fly to touch its
oh tortured skin. These tales I once
shouted in a room full of friends, the beer
bursting from the pit to my eyes, I can
dance, I can sing, oh Sam won’t you play
it again as I reach out towards her and ask
let us make our way once round the room
to a song that will rest here until all these
trappings are gone.

A war poem by David Tombale: Back home

Back home was my first attempt at writing war poetry and while I've never had personal experience at the war front I was inspired by the works of Wilfred Owen. As one of my favourite poets of all time I felt I owed it to Wilfred to at least try my hand at a few.
Back home

A clear meadow on an early spring morn, I thought,

 I remember my mother's voice, sweet in the stillness

 That preceded waking life and I

Breathed in air undisturbed by polluted enterprise,

 

I remember it all and

It comes back to me on a bloody field in the dead of night,

My breath struggling through a torn cavity,

My flesh seared by napalm and

 My senses assaulted by the stench of my own

 Dying corpse,

 

A clear meadow swaying to rhythm of

The gentlest breeze, a hummingbird alighting on a

 Fragrant rose,

 

Scenes from my memory,

 

An undisturbed day in the bloom of spring,

 

Flashbacks of better days,

Before bitter nights and ricochets of bullet

 Rounds-

 

and I fall back to dream of those better days

 As my breath rattles in my throat and

As I close my eyes darkness creeping

At the edges of my sight I sigh happily and

Walk out onto a clear meadow,

 

Fragrances of sun drenched wheat,

Roses and violets preceding me,

Welcoming me in like a lover who's feet

 Have carried him back home.

 

 

A poem about heartbreak by David Tombale: Black Magic

Black magic as a sad love poem was originally meant as a letter to an old ex. The basic idea here is one of I've repeated a few other times in other pieces that it is not enough to be in a relationship and that mistakes happen but our true happiness can only be found by connecting with someone who understand us.
Black magic

A shadow walked around
with the peace that’s been missing from her mind
or perhaps a distant smile
and somehow I know that thought she keeps
hidden from her eyes is all of him,
like somewhere far but he still summons her,
a sorcerer leaves us spellbound
his absence felt and heard,
is it wrong that this pauper amongst princes thinks of her?
Follows behind her stately walk?
I will follow on until the ending of an age
and as the years progress and the black turns to grey
it is I still standing here begging you to stay,
alas the silence,
she looks upon me,
harsh emotion rocks me,
I feel the distance and I am swimming in it,
a ship somehow cast adrift,
the ice floes bobbing in my view
but I come towards them willingly
begging only to be sunk,
to vanish into depths that will wash me dry
and leave me relic of  someone else’s life.

A lyrical love poem by David Tombale: Fireflies

Fireflies was just driven by this image I had in my head of a red haired nymph beckoning to a young poet amidst the splendor of a dark forest. It's one of the few short poems I have and one of my absolute favourites.
Fireflies

There were jewels that hid
Inside her eyes thereby
Proving the truth in lies,
Bitter words despised,
Newly risen joy like fireflies
In forest skies.

A dark poem about the holidays by David Tombale: In my room

This is a dark satirical poem I wrote about Christmas that is plainly ridiculous on the surface. It is one of my first attempts to create a sort of worded painting with a hidden meaning. When I saw what I'd created it felt like I'd got my answer.
In my room

It was a Christmas night and they had
Christ there in their hymns and these quiet
Vagrants with holy eyes and bankies
Full of drugs, a listless night with the
Sound of wolves raising hackles on our
Skin and the FBI's still listening trying
To catch as at our best, blasting fireworks
And whispering how the system's still
Corrupt, funny how Death came calling
Dressed in Saville Row laughing about
The citadels and the forts the bankers
Bought just to tear em down but in the
Square he said the music of machine
Guns kept the orphans from screaming out,
Little children dancing to the bullet rounds
What a Christmas this has been, the
Women in their garter belts selling innocence
In the streets, the tanks are coming, the
Tanks are coming, martial law has come
To town and there is no silence left for
Prayer, why even the churches close
Tonight, in the colleges they drink to
2012, judgement's in the air but still they
Riot cos there's still a party going on, and
The juveniles are kissing girls in the hallways
Of my school, they run out in violent gangs
Killing teachers and hanging nooses from
The trees while the principal hides beneath
Her desk, scrambling, eyes rotating, scrambling
For her bibles, it's not too late, there's still
15 seconds left, and they talk about the
Persecution that happened that Christmas
Day, with storefronts burning and cops firing
Bullets on the crowd while I stayed inside
My room and sipped Heineken as the world
Came falling down.