A poem about imprisonment by David Tombale: The Horizon

The act of imprisoning others beyond any questions of guilt or innocence leaves a scar on a person’s life that isn’t easily forgotten. The Horizon is about putting such an experience down on paper.

The Horizon

I have sat beside these bars to
watch the hours pass,

holding vigil as the sun must
rise to fall again and I outstretch my
hand to catch the rays,

keeping envy breeding inside
myself at the flock of pigeons that
go flying by,

oh must I stay?
Must I remain, locked down like
an animal in a cage?

Pacing this tiny room,
memorizing patterns in the stones,
I am screaming but I will not breathe,

the walls close in and my knuckles
bleed as I pound the hard concrete,

the blue of their uniforms no longer
calls my gaze, it melts within the
small horizon that I’ve made.

 

A poem about growing up by David Tombale: Without you

Without you is about being young and what we first learn of girls as boys and where that can eventually take us.

Without you

There is this place in my hometown
called Thema, and there I met you-

you were just a little girl and
I was a boy too young to know what
Woman meant but I still needed you.

I needed the way you’d shove me,
the way we’d wrestle, the way we’d laugh;
now riding round on these mean streets
in Gaborone I imagine I see you happy-

a handsome boy has his arm draped
around you and you’re looking at him
the way I dreamt you’d once see me;
as if the brown of my eyes was as beautiful
as the night skies glowing with the pinpricks
of stars going on and on long into eternity.

I imagine you somewhere in Pretoria in
an outdoor café drinking an espresso like a
grown up while he talks loudly about his
job but then a feeling strikes you,
a sharp bite of longing sinks in so deep
that it makes you bleed but only in your soul.

You’ll turn your gaze towards the west
and your mouth will dry and somehow
you’ll know that I’m somewhere close
walking on without you.

 

A poem about Christmas by David Tombale: The Game

Christmas means different things to different people The Game is just one of those stories.

The game

The sparklers burst and leave a
flood of lights to burn behind
my heavy eyes as I peek inside,
tear wrapping off of boxes to the
delighted squeals of naked fiends.
I grab a waist and drag him to me,
place a cotton sweater over heated
skin with the windows glaring open
as dust outside lifts from around the
rim to add to angels balanced on a
twig.

He puts his hands on either
cheek and gazing at his missing
teeth I’m reminded of this game;
toss him high then let him down
while the carols quietly sing his
name.