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.