A poem about loss and love by David Tombale: At night

For everyone there is that one person who shakes our equilibrium, who we think too far to touch and this is for all of that.

 

 

At night

 

At night I pull your shirt from out of

 the cupboard so I can hold it tightly

 in my trembling arms before the moon

 sinks down to kiss my head,

 only she knows that tonight I’m thinking of you,

 rubbing strands of light blond hair between my fingers

 as the pillows whisper sweet forgetting,

 they beg me to sink within them into a world of

 white so deep it will swallow me,

 I wish I could but I know I shall never find you

 there.

 

 You are soaring through the sky on the wings

 of angels while the darkness pours beneath my

 bedroom door shoving light before it angrily,

 see that way he shows me that within these caves

 it’s the sun that promises devastation,

 for a frog must look upon the sky with wonder

 and never dream to touch a star.

 

 

A poem about home by David Tombale: A love for home

Some of us are lucky enough to get a chance to spread our wings but home can be where you will always feel the most loved and that is what this poem is meant to represent.

 

 

 

A love for home

 

A love for home is hidden in the

 raindrops, it’s hidden in the roughness

 of my father’s hard back books.

 

 A love for home is a promise of days

 to come and days gone by,

 it’s in the way I touch your arms when

 you fold them, it’s in the leaves that rest

 beside my father’s battered truck,

 all smeared over with the awful smell

 of goats and cows.

 

 My love for this place is

 hidden in the way I leave it,

 running fingers over weathered stone,

 picking paint chips off my shirt, they’ve

 been falling from the walls and

 I know I’ll miss them all.

 

 

A poem about friendship by David Tombale: Brothers

Some friends become our family over time and when you lose that it can transform you forever.

 

 

 

Brothers

 

I was only ten when daylight struck

 the frost turning rays into falling

 showers, only twelve when the school

 bus stalled and the driver’s hand settled

 on my arm.

 

 I turned thirteen so I could leave,

 I packed my bags and put all those

 signs away.

 

 Fourteen sitting high above the city

 lights on a small brown hill looking down

 and somewhere down there he might lift

 his head and wonder where I am.

 

 There’s thing about two brothers

 that will always be more than friends,

 there’s this thing about these streets that

 turns even simple nights into tests of courage,

 and as the light recedes from my watching

 eyes I think I’ll miss you most.

 

 

A poem about the weekend by David Tombale: Let me show you

The weekend tends to be something that most people enjoy, some for rest and relaxation and some for fun and for others it’s a chance to be with the people we love.

Let me show you

The weekend lights upon us out

of the dark like a burning bush,

striking a pin into the soft flesh

of factory worker and office worker

alike, and me.

Can you see us running for overcrowded

buses like lemmings flinging our small

bodies over the lip of a cliff?

Somehow this weekend will find me

waiting for you, flowers in hand watching

the cold night creeping in and the old lady

who often watches from the window above

draws her shawl tight around her neck.

There is a new groove playing from

a nearby jukebox and tonight I know

you’ll want to dance, forget your troubles,

forget Mathematics and Science, toss

those books in a corner, take my hand,

babe I’m asking you please, take my

hand and let me show you the night.

A poem about national pride by David Tombale: I do it for the love

I’ve never been one for national pride but every so often you have to stand up and respect the flag.

 

 

 

I do it for the love

 

Winter cold and summer heat

 as Gaborone’s streets welcome

 me, the scent of hotdogs cooking

 on the grey of asphalt, the taste of

 onions and tomatoes running

 down my tongue, the sound of

 horns blaring at orange traffic lights,

 we’re running, little boys in black

 school shoes playing ball outside

 this old man’s yard while he drinks

 his tea and dreams of the first Khama’s

 days, he waits to welcome his hero’s son,

 waits to lift his hand, to cast his ballot,

 waits to show his love for blue, black

 and white like everyday I wake to show

 my pride in this brawling, crazy city’s

 sights.

 

 

A poem about fear by David Tombale: The miles

Fear is something almost every regular person faces in their lives learning to tackle it allows you to build a stronger you and that’s what The miles is about.

 

 

 

The miles

 

 

The miles keep rolling on and

 threaten to take the heart from

 me, but I am not afraid.

 

 The copper coloured sky serves as

 my beacon and I keep going on,

 running across these yellow fields.

 

 The miles keep rolling, tearing up

 and winding, but I’ve replied I am

 not afraid, because these skies have

 sheltered me, watered my drying skin,

 fed my soul with love for their purple

 haze, the white upon the trees.

 

 The miles have carved these lines

 upon my face but I have roared

 I am not afraid, because these words

 have held me close, this house, these

 leaves, her pink tipped toes, her love,

 this scarlet rose.

 

 

A poem about the nature of love by David Tombale: Sunshine plays with me

Sunshine is meant to be my understanding of love; its philosophies, its power, everything that makes it great.

 

 

 

Sunshine plays with me

 

Sunshine plays with me, it

 falls like the light from mirrored balls

 turning everywhere into a grand old hall

 where lovers meet, where bows are taken

 and hands are held before the dance.

 

 Sunshine plays with me, running warmth

 from tips of toes to top of head then back

 again, it warms my legs, my arms,

 reminding me of where we are.

 

 Sunshine plays with me below the

 fountain of laughing gods, and the

 marble glows with reflected light,

 shining down on your smiling face

 prompting me to say, baby stay

 with me another day.

 

 

A poem about emotion by David Tombale: Many nights

Many nights is about a situation when it only makes sense to cry but something holds you back whether it’s pride or something else; that gulf between how you feel and how you’re able to react can be huge.  

 

Many nights

 

I have not cried in many nights,

 pacing the curtained confines

 of my single room, trying to track

 the shapes spilling from the light

 of a crescent moon.

 

 The tears have not run their trails

 down my sun kissed skin, my feet

 occasionally kicking child hood dolls

 into the corners where they lie sprawled

 out and forlorn, abandoned these

 many years in boxes we never open.

 

 It feels like yesterday when these

 boxes were filled with armchairs

 and plastic pieces of swing sets,

 some screws perhaps still roll around

 beneath my bed.

 

 My nephews have grown too old for

 them and perhaps I have grown too old

 for tears, too old to cry over forgotten sins,

 memories that stretch out like shadows

 born of trees.

 

 I fall bonelessly upon my bed,

 thinking nothing, only to welcome

 the cool refreshment of a falling tear.

 

 

A poem about unemployment by David Tombale: To a prospective jobseeker

The economic recession has birthed an entire generation of desperate and despairing youth, youth that deserve a voice, a channel for their frustration and anger. To a prospective jobseeker is an outlet for that fury and disillusionment.

To a prospective jobseeker

The warm December air breathes
across your breast as you fight to hold
your sorrow in as your mother slathers
peanut butter over bread.

Your little brother smiles, lost to the
reality that there will be no beef tonight,
no meat, father’s pension has long
stretched thin and your meager stipend
can’t feed this house.

The Classifieds run empty,
demanding much, a temporary
fix to tide you over until three seasons
down you’re back to your winding ways,
your bitter breaths, your fury.

There are no jobs my friend,
the foreclosure signs are everywhere
and the heart that beats in you is slowly
turning black.