Tag Archives: Poetry of Cindy Keong

at the edge of
the rose bed
lavender stalks

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Discarded shoes
a trail of footprints
measures our silence





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leaves fall
another year


dew drips
the time it takes
for a tear to fall



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low tide
rock pools hold
a piece of the sky





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                                     In this place of double standards and no
                                     welfare; life as a single mother is a precarious
                                     dance on the blade of a double-edged sword.

                                     Yet, when Aggie walks the
                                      roads of Sinon her back is
                                      straight her head held high.

                                      She dreams of a future in the eyes of
                                      her 4 year old son, Nelson Mandela.
                                      His name-sake, her hope.

                                      For him her feet do not hover over
                                      paths inclined to shift without notice, her gaze
                                      does not drop to the critic’s stare.

                                       Today we arrive at Aggie’s as
                                       the last images of dusk bleed into
                                       the inkiness of a starless night.

                                       Her accomplished smile and the glow
                                       of a kerosene lamp unveils her
                                       newly built home, her palace.

                                        A two roomed hut; dirt floors,
                                        no windows, the only air circulating
                                        through the gap between rafter and roof.

                                         Her kitchen a camp stove
                                         assembled on the floor between
                                         lounge chairs and a secondhand bed.

                                         As we devour the delights of mutton pilaw and
                                         coconut rice; we know this moment has less to
                                         do with the house, the company the meal;

                                          this is the moment where we share
                                          the first tastes of her

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High Tea


Short rains have arrived. Tired of
waiting the dry earth refuses to
part her lips.


With wings raised in
surrender, wadudu forfeit
their cover.


Children pluck at the air with
the same enthusiasm a
bat has for ripened fruit.


Discarding wings with surgical
precision, they return home
guarding a coffee tin full of spoil.


With a salt shaker ready and a
crackling fire; wide-eyed children
watch wadudu explode like popcorn.


* wadudu – (insects)


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Surface Tension

All morning, higher than
the heads of executioners,
the sun rose above bearded men,
the raw iron of their machines
and fell without an echo
at dusk on the shoulders
of a grim highway.
Tired bodies fold in, as the Chevy
engine screams in second gear.
The halogen glow of headlights
casts shadows over tree roots,
broken veins on paper thin skin.
On wooden crosses, on the surface
of wolf-toothed swamps, on the cold edge
of a starving child; black threatens, always.
What death hasn’t tainted, dust suffocates.
They remember nights on the soft graves
of children, brushing blades of grass
from their knees, how they could catch
a piece of sky if they weren’t so alarmed.
Terror tattooed in the eyes of their women;
long gone the gentle sway of hips
beneath cotton dresses; bodies tensed and
expectant only, to cradle shadows.
All is silent where the dead lie under their strict
burden of rememberance. Beyond the barb
wire fence, traffic roars and the country goes
about its business with its usual noise.


* a collaborative poem written with Graham Nunn

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Driving Lessons


Election Eve in Arusha, dusk settles on
the frayed edges of  town, the main street banked with
traffic; people on foot flood streets and
roads like rain into gutters after drought.


Roadside fires flicker, support
smokescreen policies, loudspeakers
assault ears with promises,
masquerading as hope.


Confidence only, in locks on
doors, peeling tinted windows and Graci
a Tanzanian passenger I met 3 hours before; all
meagre protections for a Mzungu after dark.


Wedged between traffic and
pedestrians, men bang fists on
the bonnet; eyes wide with
intent and now excuse.


Crisis over, relief settles firmly on my
shoulders, Graci until now a  silent witness,
utters, Jesus, Jesus, her voice
a well scratched record.

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