I’m Day, I’m Night


Sometimes I’m green, I’m an ecologically-minded queen
I buy organic seeds and nuts, wouldn’t touch saccharine
Never a fanatic, I tend to be dramatic on occasion

You see, I don’t fit the mould; I’m of no particular persuasion
I love to fly high in the sky but worry about carbon emissions
Don’t agree with wars, would never buy munitions

Yet, there are times when we need to protect ourselves from invasion
I’m African, Asian, globally minded, sometimes Caucasian
Consumerism is such a modern-day illness but I enjoy
Buying all those shiny, glittery things, don’t destroy
My plastic cards though. I might see something I can’t do without.
I like the illusion of freedom and sometimes wonder what it’s all about

You can check my whereabouts, my shopping bouts, and my actions
What books I read, the things think I need. You’ll see my latest transactions
on Amazon, E-bay, monitor my movements. Make me feel I’m anonymous
I’d like to have a navigating system ‘because I want to feel autonomous
I only ride my bike on balmy sunny days, prefer the comfort of my car
Haven’t yet got solar panels but I admire them from afar

Rarely use the microwave, never nuke my food covered in plastic
Somehow I guessed long ago the consequences could be drastic
So getting back to my ecological side, I slide sometimes indeed
Would like to eliminate, exterminate injustice; spread to those in need
Some things I do right; do you understand my plight?
Never quite consistent, ever so persistent, I’m day, I’m night.

The Walnut Picker



I used to watch her as she filled her bucket with
Freshly-picked walnuts in the old courtyard
It felt as if I was viewing a film from the past
Or an artist’s masterpiece; so perfect was the scene
Somehow I sensed her presence when autumn days
Set in and the sun prepared for its winter retreat

She too sensed mine; she’d look up at the sandstone
Building from sixteen-thirty-nine and wave shyly
Then look at her palms and laughing, showed her
blackened hands; no longer worried about decorum
For her days of vanity had long passed and
Her floral dress billowed softly in the gentle breeze

I cannot describe the sadness I felt this year when I
Saw her empty bucket lying on its side
The shivering trees sent signals of loss as
Fruits spread over shadowed ground
The scene without the walnut lady was sad
And I sensed that something was amiss

Someone said her mind betrayed her in the end
That she spends her days picking imaginary fluff from
Childhood memories. The walnut tree stands erect
In memory of her happy face as she picked the perfect
fruit off its limbs; waiting for her smiling face
And the loving touch of blackened walnut-picking hands.