Not Driving, but Steering
I don't drive and
can't see out
the corners of my eyes
don't want to bring a harm to
any being, any child
it may be cultural
maybe physical
a self-effacing symbol of
my impotence, or quite simply
the laziness in me
and like those who won't navigate
the higher ways of politics, the
mazes of morality
fuel standards, petrol tax
there are some vehicles
I recoil from, stand apart
and greasy steering wheels
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poem by Frank Bana
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Taking out the Trash
Twice a week in break of dawn
While the stars are outstanding
I screw the plastic lids on tight
Moles and chipmunks might get in
Summer in my shirtsleeves smart
A chorus of derisive birds
Winter with my overcoat
Frost and mist, dismissive words
The plastic, glass and house discards
Out by six and standing proud
Proclaiming waste and affluence
Of which we do not speak aloud
Who has the skills to sort this stuff
The piles we evacuate
Who can recycle or degrade
The trash we have thrown out too late
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poem by Frank Bana
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Ghosts of Mine
Revenant
Running through the spires like ancient ghosts
Leo
Relinquishing the castles for the poor behind the door
Baal Shem
Name and pipe-procession ripened to adopt
Pierrot
Fill the glass-house circus casting the first stone
Bethlehem
Axle-star that fixes love and frankincense
Jonathan
I die of fraternity I publicize a birth
Asquelon
Traces of the sandblind in the path of semite steps
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poem by Frank Bana
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Shameless
His wars have failed
His soldiers die
No-one has ever
Seen him cry
His torture cells
Wiretaps exposed
His secret prisons
Will be closed
Approval ratings
In the lurch
He dare not show
His face in church
His self-invention
Crumbles, dies
His promises
Transparent lies
He smirks to shield
The criticism
Poisoning hope
With cynicism
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poem by Frank Bana
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Your Mercy
I saw myself lonely, abandoned, foresaken
My scars ripped wide open, my self-belief shaken
I asked for a dollar, they gave me a token
I called for my justice, the scales were all broken
The winter is coming, the dreams near to dying
That I've tried to protect without weapons or lying
I banked on exception but I was not chosen
My rivers of longing were too fast or frozen
And now I meet creatures whose clothes have been taken
Their dignity stolen, their neighbours betrayed them
I must lay down with them, although they will curse me
For only with them may I beg for your mercy.
poem by Frank Bana
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Daisy Chains
Daisy chains, the children
In the morning sun, lolling,
Rolling on the lawn – eyes keen
For the Mr Whippy van
Scottie running for her ball
Holding hands they feign to fall
Wasps are buzzing with the bees
Home Service of the BBC
Rules the waves but not the clouds
that chase the kids inside for games
of Blind Man’s Bluff and pick-up-sticks
while petals wilt in the failing
infant summer light of evening
Mother is watching them
Cold war autumn stalking them
Satellites of first design
Sprinkling dust on yellow lawns
Of daisy flowers and rainbow lives
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poem by Frank Bana
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Poem for my Father
Father
His face is so soft in the picture
Gazing at his one-year-old son
His features unlined at the wedding
The bride hung in white on his arm
He took me to lunch at 85
Fed me scraps of tales from the War
We sat in a park where English swans glide
Peaceful in all that we saw
There were years when the fruit was so good
Decades when I rode the air lines
Days of the week we forgot how to speak
And weekends we shared the fine wines
I had never known just how he loved me
Or why I was large in his eyes
‘Till we sat there alone in the sunshine
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poem by Frank Bana
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Sweet and Ripe the Avocado
Ripeness is all. From which vantage
To view this curving orb
Tapered to a finely rounded waist?
Honey mustard, soy sauce
Combined and smeared on inner flesh
Yielding up its most exquisite taste.
The largest I have known
Are grown in Swaziland, each one a feast
An entree made of firm and fibrous fruit
Berries maturing on the tree
Fall hard and heavy to the hand
Potent pear of high and low repute
Avocado in my bowl
Provocative, the dark presence among
The oranges that brighten up the room
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poem by Frank Bana
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The Space for Dreaming....
A space for writing, with a solid desk and chair
Circled, cornered by the ever-winking lights
Literary progress drifts and fades on air
The music of the spheres is drowned by TV fights
The grunts of boxers, punditry, united lovers
And static that the commerce of the age defines
A refuge on the eastern plains where poets, once as brothers
Hitched, hand-holding, inward to the mountain spines
And cast their visions out to where the oceans end
Engulfed by gadgetry, in solitude and screaming
While keeping hope, weighed down by what we spend
We cling to bright materials saved up for dreaming.
poem by Frank Bana
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Who Takes Care of Him?
He is so often there
Corner of 44th and Lexington
At the breakfast hour
Tall and thin, matted hair
Roughly shaven
With his jeans and cane
Talking to the buildings and the air
Who dresses him, prepares him
For the day
Hands him the cane and combs his hair
To set him on his way
To pace the waking hours
Between 44 and 43
With words that issue endlessly?
And who looks out for him
His health care and income
Ensures the police will leave
His corner well alone
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poem by Frank Bana
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