Poetry Train Africa: Ethiopia

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CHAPTER 3 Poetfeldt and Regions Beyond the Cave of Prolificity Botswana Africana Poetry Collectanea 30th of May 2016

Andy heard dogs barking, as he walked over big rocks in the middle of a creek. Rocks were many, and Andy was surrounded by mountains of rock, reminding him of Kentucky. Beautiful erosion on these massive sandstone cliffs. He heard singing and drumming. A path ahead of him caught his attention too, and he went that way. Andy noticed a long stick as a pole with a white flag half staffed blowing in the wind. Andy received the feeling of admiration but from whom? He was at ease looking up, and saw a man sitting next to a fire. The man was wrapped in a blanket, wearing a winter hat with a pointy knitted knot on top. Andy felt now this place was full of spirits. Roosters could be heard too, making him recall biblical films he has seen, and betrayal he has known. Andy loved gaps and he saw one. The wall of this caves’ gap was huge and smooth, so he walked that way, and it was beyond magnificent to him. The way through was a pathway of fine sand looking soil. A woman sat on a stone and spoke to Andy and said, “This is Motouleng, Grotte, the place that heals, the place where ancestral drums keep beating.” The woman lit up herbs on fire, and raised them up to the spirits. A man next to her spoke, “Dreams bring me here, Dreams”, he said. Andy smiled and thought, ‘Many dreams have brought me here too.’ People were in prayers next to the cave walls. Others were chanting, and beating drums. Many people were there to be healed. Andy heard one person saying, “The Ancestors will tell you what to do.” Andy was observant and quiet, his heart was in full respect. Andy loved the huts and the roofs of them. Singing became louder, and Andy smiled.

Andy walked into a cave to see if there was art on the cave walls, and once inside he heard bats, and voices of ghosts, Boer women and children, and a child ghost said, “We are hiding from British soldiers.” The drums sounded like thunder, the singing sounded like wind. Andy was in the boundary between the human and the divine. He felt in thought, the paradox, Death is not the final horizon, it is the real beginning, because it is where remains are finally absolutely in the hands, and at the mercy of the other.′ Andy felt centuries of rain and wind was going to take him away as all before. He felt and thought, ‘He doesn’t know how his, and Reds’ great achievements were, and that’s why there was silence on the train. They were at the helm where all great Poets and Prophets helm from, the Realm of Dreams and Memory.′ Andy and Red were tasting the secret. They earned this by the love for humanity, Poetry and using the art of listening. Here Andy was at the sacred cave.

Water could be heard now, and Andy loves the sound of water. Water was like Poetry, water has to go somewhere, as Bruce Lee taught them. Andy was living outside of time, and this was only the beginning; and this has been underway for quite some time.

Andy heard a Facebook notification, and this woke him up from this sublime dream. He got up fast, not thinking not to, to stay the cave of dreams. Andy looked, and it was Train Marshall Charlie who joined the Poetry Train members group on Facebook. This made Andy smile, and to top it all off, it was Memorial Day. Oh the power of memory Andy thought, and he went back to sleep happy.

A Phantom appeared to Andy in the cave, and spoke, “You are unlike the other historians, they like to look at history as an autopsy, killing it even more, but, you and your friend, bring the past to life again. Listen to them talk to you Andy, they feel comfortable with you, because you understand Natures’ sense of justice.”

Andy replied, “We do our best, even if we are Poetry Nomads, and on the run.” Andy heard that sound like he heard in Utah in Poetry Train America, and it sounded like grasshoppers everywhere. Andy remembered how dark it got, and it was the opposite. It was already dark, they were in a cave.

The Phantom spoke again, “They laughed at you because they didn’t understand the power of being, the intermediary luxury like you have, and that’s why you hesitate when you speak. You are like how I once was, you go into the heart of the things you have created, originated, or what you have brought into being. You have the mark.”

Andy asked without fear, “What is your name?”

The Phantom replied, “Cosa.”

“I know you, don’t I?” Andy exclaimed

“Yes you do, You have written about me in your epic love poems.” Cosa the Phantom replied.

“I should recite the Poems to you.”

“Yes, make your mark again, here, make your mark once more.” Cosa said.

The Phantom of Original Innovative Literature

The New Phantom

Came to me, and said

’Seeds fall on the

top of snails, and echo

The sound makes pops

It is desire, be in touch

for ample food in

ones stomach, and reply

Overflow by this flood

Poets de blood


Seeds fall more and more

The future the period

Do not look to the past


The road was path-ethic

Shun with a smile

Yes learn then turn

If you want to be read 200 years from now


Boldness, to smash obstacles

No middle

Give a fiddle


A lesson

For expression

As Elm trees fall to mulch;

named to honor a new street

Seeds, hear them?

Sounds like a revolution

Said the Phantom

The Phantom I

(Please Create your own Whistle While I Work)

Come out of the shadows` my friends, you are

about to witness the end

Our life-ship has seen its last days

I’m setting you into your maze

We have caused many painful tears; Affairs

of the world interfere;

And vandalized my innocence

Loved ones have built a chain link fence-

To keep from further damages on, and

out of my premises

She loves the old house, my being; but dark-

ness is all I’m seeing

There is a deadline to restore, She wants

me like I was before

Beauty is now my sole province

Clean myself with light, and rinse

Watch me gut myself before you, it’s a

dangerous job to do

A spiritual first aid kit is a

must, to see this job fit

11:27 pm, the dark

starts to speak, and says I’m alone:

I start taking out the windows;

So I can breath free, and rescind

Steal toe boots for this rusty nail infested

world of mine, so dusty and frail

The sound of the pounding hammer-

puts my brain into a slammer

What charms am I going to salvage, from these

broken, and re-glued ravages?

I need an oasis to keep

my sanity in peaceful sleep

I can’t go to sleep with no kiss, prayers

for the foundation of this

These afflictions are mental mold

Toxic addictions worth no gold

Strip myself down to my bare wires, down to

my soul, it burns like fire

Watch me gut myself for outer beauty

I need a crowbar, bit stouter

Relocating washer/dryer hookups

I’am sure new stains will appear

All of my goals I’ve been after-

are down here right to the rafters

Here love, in my kitchen of ell, gutted

down to my very shell,

My appetite is deep bleeding,

Oh love light, for you, I ’m pleading

Pound after pound, pound pound pound, keeping

in mind of surround sound

Shackled chandeliers, ceiling joists

Love moist me up to you, I hoist

All by myself so phenomenal, I’m some-

thing after all

Break, to kneel a spiritual

thought, forward back, perpetual

I’m here living, breathing, changing

Watch me gut myself, arranging

Witness me becoming so free,

Free from negative memories

Yes, the new phantom, says to me

’No one shall bring you to your knees

You’re in the company of light

Shadows fall back into the night’

’The ones you love dear, hold so near, for your

new light is to appear

Caress it, whisper something love

You are about to rise above’

I hear the music, glass trumpets, pledging

Souldom’ Souldom, Souldom!

Yes, my love dear, I see some light

The colors you picked out are so right

Phantom smiles, says, ‘love the chorus’, ‘me too’,

’Love what you have wrote us

You’re about to create a web,

That no darkness shall ever ebb’

’You have been kissed by sweet grace, how does

it feel too with this new place?

You have fired yourself; to now hire

a better you, the in, inspire

I hear them again, glass trumpets, pledging

Souldom’ Souldom, Souldom!

The whispering whistle of wit

Conjuring up spider wire knit

The Phantom says, ’guests should only be, by your

invitation only,

Because you know how they disown thee

Your Kingdom is one and only’

’Call out to your Queen, call her out; Shout out

your everlasting shout

You heart is of many great things,

Cherish what the creator brings;

″Phantom, I’m honored by your call; for you

I’d be nothing at all

For you I’ve created a den

There for eternity we’ll spend’

’Countless times of laughing my friend, singing

songs of methods of mend

I’ve conducted every code

The new power is on my road’


The Phan†om II Octobers’ Embrace

Outside, aware like a young child, for I

forgot old reality

A mist covers me very close

with its eternal hands of mystery

As I walk admiring forests; shelter

calls me, I must enter-

I hear a whisper that echoes’,

“Welcome, I’ve been waiting here”

This small voice is from my new dreams, as I

approach the den; it seams

what once was known; memories

of me gone as the shade once flowed

The Phantom sits alone, shallow

Only the beat of my heart sounds

Not hollow. I look at it’s face,

it says, ’ remember her embrace’

Her words were peaceful in my ears, Her eyes

were everything so near

A beauty I can not describe

She’s like a music box inside

It’s a song that touches my soul, a song

that I can not let go;

And it cries melodic movements

in memories of our moments

It reels pictures of our kisses, and these

vast scenes touching her lips

The grasping hands upon my face

The song is Octobers’ Embrace

She is all I do remember, why do

I cry deep down inside?

It seeps, feels like a warm ember

A beauty I can not describe

I remember the days in her

illuminations, and the tree

of many souls. I remember,

her farewell to the weeping rose

I bared witness to these chosen, and she

gave me her flesh to kiss

A beauty I can not describe;

And this is love I feel inside

Her voice is honey, my Phantom, her voice

tastes like her poetry

I will take your advice, and vise

I shall hold, and cherish my choice

I feel the vines of light, they wrap, pulling

into infinities drips

My thoughts whisper out romantics;

Our lighter passion in our breaths

Like kisses her hands dripped of light as a

carnival carbons a

childs’ sight, with begotten candy

An eatable toy to enjoy

My beautiful gift I gasp for your lips

Spill all your beauty on my mind

Water my skin from now, kiss me

with beauty I can not describe

The light is slow, its only fast when it

goes away, I ask why

Is this light Gods greatest poem?

And her light on the paper sky

reflects every moment in my mind

of her beauty I can’t describe

This is who, and what I’ve chosen

And here is where my time resides

To whom do I belong Phantom, to whom

Do you remember the faces;

And remember their names: she must

be the one that showed me the way??

Her smile flickers, like slow strobes, she is

addicted to my kiss

“You’re attempting to be her light”

“Yes, it’s something I need to learn”

“I knew of light before I met her, but now

yes now, it’s all I yearn”

“Do you still have the fear of death?”

Sometimes, but I think of her words

Her stories, is our privacy, wisdom

passed to me, in promise

I have prayed for such a person

to love me as me, and callus

Do you think of her calluses, her fears,

her pains, her dreams, her trust?

Do you think you have transformed-now?

With out her I wouldn’t know how

’We have a similar old dream, when we

were young we dreamt the same

I felt it in her words and tongue

Mainly her eyes then it became’

’I think now it was a warning, a world

that I had to go to

A world so great and forced to face

I have one regret to tell you’

’It will never happen again, I’ve failed

to recognize; over

looked her spirit calling to me

Did you bring to me my lover?’

’Not just love for humanity, for me-

Did you single me out for her?

No one has ever clung to me

Phantom, she is my true answer’


The Phan†om III Chasten in Battery~

My cello, I hear you with your bellow-

sweet breeze, kissing my skin

It’s your bellow; and for the light

You are my sweet breeze in this night

Phantom, life feels so beautiful, complete

depth, she is my cello

Rare delicacy durable

I am like her piano -full

Of interesting keys to sing, I have

searched so long for this song

It’s again like life creating

Love is made, not in the making

Phantom, the light I created in my

sons, I ask, keep them oiled

When you do take me native,

keep my creations creative

I still have vast wars unsettled, fired on

my heart, and deep mind

I need you to come to battle

Chasten in battery, chattel

I must question the quest of doubt, answer

Doubt, look into my eyes

Why are you lurking here about,

Listen to me, or are you in doubt??

When I hear your voice, I hear hell, be gone

I can’t convey your presence

Tell me something good, come on tell

Listen, my light shadows your spell

To love some times I must distance, just to

let love be the ruling

For my soul truly will advance

Our hearts surely again, shall dance

This lifes jargon jar is now full, disposed

on an art show display

And they are old bandages pulled

Heavy, and sharp, so tightly spooled

We must be like the Angels tend because

like old tradition

They have risen, and not fallen

We shall rise up fast like great men

It is now snowing, war sickles, stabbing

music, with much sustain

Step on light, I am your pedal

For a while I’ll let you meddle

The drummer beating in my chest, is like

great David Lambardo

playing Shalom, his very best

Truly alive is my promise

The Phantom with warning labels, shows me

his weapons, blades of truth

Very much like sharp clean scalpels

We sit at Honestys’ table

We are training for my new start, I’m a

disciple of the watch

Obedience with my new heart

For all of my missing the mark

Pride, the great lurking earth monster, I’ll fight

face to face in the dark

Abundantly I shall smother

Suffocate you like no other

True light shall never be like ash, the word

Pitiful is not deep

There’s no bottom for one to crash

I want to laugh as I mass thrash

Chasten with me in battery, chasten

now, and speak battery

I am now whole, no more scattering

Blood of darkness is splattering

Splattering, splattering, gossip lips are

shattering, shattering

Chasten with me in battery

Kiss the light; it is flattering!

Fawkin, fawkin, like falcon, I eye

the false intents, so bent

Brawlin, brawlin, come darling

Souldom, Souldom, our Kingdom

I look for these modern Trojan horses,

and the henchmen that ride

New specs in light- is my engine

Endurance insurance, Phantom-

Tell me the secrets of water, tell me

the secrets of the dam

Show me the way of the otter

Webbing the way like a trotter-

on the Ivy horse of true light; I’ll ride

the fields of enlightenment;

Into the battle field for trite

I shall return, and reunite

“If I could put time in your hands, you would

see that you are times pet

Your mind may truly understand;

And may master yet on command”

“You’ve learned the true definition of what

your soul truly desires

You were born with fullest gumption

A fire with no assumption

My cello, I hear you with your bellow-

sweet breeze, kissing my skin

It’s your bellow; and for the light

You are my sweet breeze in this night


The Phantom IV Cause and Respect

The Phantom poet-geist, an apostle

to the envy ivy of ashes. Read

me by the light, like fire so bright. Words

of their romance that crashes like night

An original man is rare, lust him

with care, for he loves to share, that’s only fair.

Magnify his needs, on the light he feeds,

then you can kill his proceeds. “I’ m a man

of the Midwest, very blest, in wisdom.

The great invisible chest,” Relieving

to be prolific, not the deceiving.

A one, and only in a vast region

“You like touching a little life, don’t ya?”

“Pretty much , feels brittle, but love it all,

I tell ya.”The Phantom says, ’I find all

these rumors, much in humor, do not thee?’

’Phantom, let them speak, they’re only taking

away from their own time, you see’

They spit their mouths, with little terror to me

My lips laugh out, and that’s horror set free

As of now, I can here them yell; tell me

is that a bit of hell? I can not dwell;

or relate to sadness in their short fate.

Madness is not my weight. Gladness I make

I would love to install a big skylight

over this closet drama. From above,

pour vials of light on the garden of lies

Love’s the most plagiarized word in time

But even the word hate, has sweet, sour rhymes

“Oh just pour more light on the garden of lies”

“We actually do hate the pulpit,

don’t we?” “ Only for the artificial

veins of bullshit” “Sure, why not, make them scratch

their gross rubber~ superstitions. Biong! Biong!

It’s funny, and bouncy, tears of laughter

by the ounce. “What are we studying, counts?

No, lets talk about the new vintage fire.

We can’t let them escape what is now prior

Tomorrow, the Miseries of the Dammed


The Phan†om V Movements From The Unseen

(ambient collaboration of unknown origin)

Phaos phaos phanos phaos

Come, words to the wise

Use your spiritual compass

Take my hand and vise

Uno epi the Reich

Come love and lay beside

Show forth, come forth

Sum up the math inside

Count the endless days

I think of you, and twice

Because of dreams’ ways

There I’am hot in ice

Your presence, a gift

Touch me, touch my life

You are a divine gift

Take my hand before life

My Phantom who are they?

Do they live in invisible glass?

Can they see me everyday?

Do they use the staring-glass?

My Phantom I have to ask

Do they talk to you, but you pass

When will they scribe out a task

Just me, so knowledge is past

Walking are you, not,

you are crawling on cosmic waves.

Talking thunder, yes,

you are facing numbered days

You can say I’m a big baby

when she reads to me, new ones

I ask, she says ‘maybe’

Her verse, really does make me think

I sure do go crazy

over her words in ink

I hear you say, for me to sing

Phaos phaos phanos phaos

Come, words to the wise

Use your spiritual compass

Take my hand and vise


The Phan†om VI She is the Spring Horizon

An earth shaking break through

Much justice and joy in what I do

I pay my tuition for my intuition

I can easily reach, and remove the leech

I am waiting for the critical moment to move

I find the cobra playful joy to me, the mongoose

I am fortunate to have you my Phantom burst

As in Shelly’s final couplet in his royal verse

Anger, and hatred is something I refuse

She, my foreign country I find my refuge

I was made for love, and leaves can’t hide the light

And no where is just a leap year, an extra night

There is a contrast between poetry and war

The erosion of empathy on sensitivitys’ shore

You can not understand if you do not try

I’m about to live while you follow and die

I did not build the bridge of difference

I sit upon the ridge of faith in balance

I hold the powerful gun of apologize

It is not cocked and loaded for your eyes

I wrote this for the combatants in conflict

I study a better life through faith, and lit

I focus on you, the breathing reader

The spiritual realm is also a bleeder

Kiss God For Me

His reflection is stain’d on your finger nails.

Burn’d there by the passion of your eyes.

Shh, the Angels whisper secret things,

And kiss God for me, for a surprise.

His addiction is nam’d on your frolic heart.

Sitting there is a memory from your lips.

Yes, the Angels recall spoken words,

And kiss God for me, as truth worships.

The shadow that hides your intentions

has fail’d; drawn weak and dismay’d.

Shh, the light celebrates the truth,

And the kisses on Gods face are paid.

The answers are clear to those betray’d hearts.

The rushing rain cleans the mud so divine.

The Angels are more wick’d than the wick’d,

And kissing God replenishes our time.

In the realm of Angels time is like Valentines

And pink is the color of their eyes, and the vines

they are clothed in, whisper melodic rhymes

Because God is a lover thyself, a lovers mind

For she, my love is a horizon to the eye

Where the land meets the eternal sky

Charging me like a saint fire, burning high

For the voice of the poet, and his love in rite


The Phan†om VII 24 Carat Sarcasm

We took a cloverish journey

To have fun, and do some learning

Since I am Irish

And love gibberish

Able, the tables turning

There’s a place with curves and islands

The City is never silenced

Won’t you come to Limerick

And play games folkloric

She walks in beauty said Lord Byron

There once was some poets from the net

That would attempt a challenge and bet

They said it was for fun

To inspire and run ones gums

But I have not read one praised high yet

There is a young poet named Spendo

Whose speed was much fast and crescendo

He departed one day

In a relative way

And returned to his hearts defendo

You can hear his cosmic trigger

blasting through nights barrel, bigger

A cento will go far

yes she’s his brightest star

‘Come here’ said his index finger

I bought everyone a round of beer

Because I know they all so damn fear

I even bought them two

so their night won’t go blue

A little love and thanks giving cheer

Spendo the poet took a pen

And broke some rules, and he just grinned

Mocking propaganda

And rocking chastuska

Prosperity came and spent

The Phantom is a spiritual whiz

And said, ’Put your pen where your paper is”

’Travel a little time

Truly never un-wind’

‘You’ll may not know when there’ll be a pop quiz’

’Spendo now you are going to Japan

And spend some time with Basho the man

You’ll taste some sweet hokku

And bathe in lilly woo

The old pond, in the dangerous land’

‘I guess I’ll meet you in the spirit world’

‘That one that you’ve been talking about girl’

The Phantom just smiled,

‘Awe, your sweet Churchild’

They went up the spiral, and down the curl

And met the big wise ol hole named Black

that plays cosmic strings behind your back

He’s like to create

And loves to rotate

He is an enigma maniac


Spendo the Poet

Why, the other night I read a poem

About all the horse manure

It took to grow the most beautiful flower

Only to be plucked by doubt and lust

Anxieties-flowing powers

The unknown parents of Aphrodite

The hearts’ great pranksters of dust

The gods have their thrones

People have their bones

And bless who’s wearing

that over use cologne

Hey, but it’s working like

substance abuse

Has my hormones jerking, obtuse

The winking eye of a dragon fly

What does that signify?

We laugh, we cry

We’re hardly satisfied,

Questioning am I?

But I Imagine at the end of the world

We all can rest our backs and shoulders

And the last nanno second can be eaten

By the great vulture Death

The thief of future breath

Where it shall finally choke

And the winged dove Hope

shall finally be ever so flightless

Down on earth those flat liners

are creating some art

Everyone’ last beat

is finally done doing their part

The pool of memory is empty

Hilarious, I thought

I’ve seen it all, hilarious

Sure let’s all roll stones

At rock bottom forever

It isn’t like we haven’t been

doing this all along together

Oh just keep smiling dreamer

Open your eyes,

murder is in the skies

As far as they reach

The Gods are drunks

So what is left to teach

I know, I’ll get a back hoe

And dig up the secrets

the earth knows, but only

to find they are empty ditches

from all the beautiful snitches

Just great, I’ll sit here and wait

Neat little bugs, come and walk away

I guess they look at me, and say

It must be nice to sit

on your ass today,

I’m thinking okay

Shoe, go way, or I’ll squash

And wash you away.

Yes I know, Karma’s Times sister

Just go, and don’t forget

to call me mister

I always wanted to film bugs

Interesting micro thugs

There Death is flying above

A vulture circling like a shark

A jealous god as well

I can only think of guns

Happily ending for once

I can become a pirate,

Not the pirate common

But a dimensional one

Fuck an oracle

I’m looking for a miracle

Yes I know I’m a spectacle

Horizontal and vertical

A target for the thunderbolt

I do not revolt,

I just want to dolt Time

Yours and mine

I seen a rock and a tree

Guess what I done, just think

Black feathers were all over the ground

You should have heard the killing sound

I heard a horse, and a rider

A fast horse, more like a spider

I’m like look, I do not waste time on cows

Sorry to disturb you with your demented plow

But I have a question, so please tell me how

“How do you come and go

with out being ever friendly

Is it all a show, and why does

it all have a ending?”

Before Time said a word

I punched Time in the face

I said, ’Now you’ve heard

From my lips, you’re a disgrace”

It cried, and said “my sister

she’ll have her revenge’

I said ‘Call me Poet Spendo’

I already knew that, I avenge”

Time said “Follow me cunning one

Let me show you the core of the sun”

I said “No, I have no reason

I just wanted to show you my season”

Time said “I accuse you of no battery

But no one will know of this flattering”

I said “Yes, but this poem is written in stone

It lays over there where Deaths’ skull is blown”

Time laughed, and said “You are a slick bastard”

“No, you and the Gods, mistakenly made me a hazard

You all fused my parents, and didn’t think twice

Because you dumb fucks look upon us as lice”

“You, and your pranksters, and jokes

forgot about our fire that truly smokes

Without us you would dwindle away

It is nice that this is happening today”

Dark clouds began to appear

And all the Phantoms feared

But admired Spendo’s restitution

Said “You hold the key of restoration”

Spendo looked at Time, and asked

“What have you learned?

To be more considerate to all

Before their dwelling’s all burned”

Spendo cried out, “You all are frauds

None of you know how to love abroad

Love shall hold the key to restoration

And a new time with distribution”

“Peace and Love shall reign,

and Time shall have to

return to it’ dawning day

And clean the messes made”

The Phantoms said, “That will take forever”

“Well Click, don‘t make me laugh, create travelers

Clone yourself, and start to do the repairs

And keep in mind the truth shall you dare”

The Phantoms asked, “Where shall you go

You have proved your honor to man Spendo’

“I shall return to my souls windows

Watch my love tend to her poetic billows”

Spendo’ walked through the forest,

And didn’t take the road

A Phantom followed, the rest asked

“Why do you follow?

In reply The Phantom said,

“To hear the newest chorus”

The poem was called Spendo” the Poet

The Poet that killed Death,

and punched Time in face

The Poet, Time Travelers embrace

Andy awoke with the thought of Train Marshal Charlie. He got up quickly, and checked the group. The dream was real. Andy was sleepwalking in the land of healing.

Red was sleeping. When he was a boy his mother read to him the story ‘How the Elephant Got His Trunk’ by Rudyard Kipling and many others. And her reading was poetry to his ears. His vocabulary of animals and their imagery impacted his heart. The events about to take place in his dream he was dreaming now, was going to devastate him. Red loved animals. The Pula, their name for rain in Botswana was separating with the thunder clouds, but Red could see they were falling down far away. The ground shook behind Red, and a cold breeze blew around his body. He turned around and there was a giant cloud of ice that crashed to the ground. This was a hailstorm like no other. ‘What new beginning was generating?’ Red thought.

The Limpopo River was flowing with super power. The waters were fast, reaching high and were dangerous. Red noticed people swimming for their lives. Red walked to the river to help. The banks of the river were steep and slippery. A man was yelling to the east. He looked, and there were men, and it seemed their wagon was stuck in mud. Their Oxen were half way buried deep in it.

Red made his way to them, and an odd looking man with an appearance that was magnificent was saying, “Myfooty, Slangfeldt, wo ha, you Vhitfoot, you duivel, let’s move.” His hair was curly, dark and long. He wore a hat with a feather, and he carried guns. The man yelled at a trader who was marching a herd of cows to assist them out of the mud. This odd man was the hunter Roualeyn Gordon Cumming. He finally spotted Red, and called out to Red to help them. Red got there, and seen that the Oxen were in a hole.

Roualeyn snickered and said, “What? Haven’t you seen a hole excavated by an Elephant before? That’s how they drink. They have water now, and it hasn’t rained in months” Roualeyn gave Red a double look and said, “You are no native.”

Red laughed inside and thought, He doesn’t know my name.

Roualeyns’ assistants named Murphy and Mhyner Stinkum were too in awe of Red, but Mhyner spoke right away, “Klow” and pointed to his eyes.

This, Red guessed, was for them all to follow him. They followed Mhyner Stinkum for about ten yards, and Roualeyn let out an un-earthly yell. Everyone looked behind them, and a herd of Elephants were running towards them. Cumming opening confessed as they ran as fast as they could to the wooded area behind them by the river, “Instead of me being a man of fourteen stone weight, nature had formed me of the most Lilliputian dimensions.”

They all ran through an area of wait-a-bit thorns, and this was to hope the Elephants did not follow them through this part of the land. They got about thirty yards and did not hear the Elephants follow. They all stopped, and reaching for their rifles, and snapped ten to twenty rounds into the Elephants shoulders. Roualeyn yelled, “Aim for the heart.” They all did, and every Elephant cried out as they fell to the ground dead. Roualeyn reached for his canteen. Everyone else did the same, and they drank. Red did not have one. Murphy gave Red some water, and Roualeyn said, “Murphy is the kindest hearted person who breathes.”

Red felt a disgust. He couldn’t stop looking at the Elephants. ‘Bad omens were going to fall upon these men,’ Red thought, and hopefully not upon him.

A secretary bird walked by, walking all crazy, and Red laughed. Roualeyn spoke as they walked by the river, “Let us camp here.” He ordered some natives that came back from scouting more animals to butcher, to get the heads of the Elephants and their 100 lb tusks. This made Red angry.

“Sea cows, river horses, the hippopotamuses maybe something else to worry about, but we will set up camp here for the night,” Roualeyn looked at Red, and said, “Make yourself useful, like catch us some salmon. Did you attend one of those Andries Pretorius mind slaughters?” Roualeyn reached into a pouch and spoke again, “Do you have any cotton? Do you have a tonteldoos, you look puzzled, it’s a tenderbox to build a fire.”

A male ostrich made further up the river bank, and alerted all the other animals.

Red spoke, Yes, they are warning them of the hycome days.

Roualeyn replied “You mean the bygone days.”


Mhyner Stinkum looked at Red and said, “He acts like the foam of the sea.”

Roualeyn replied, “Well, he is not a Abelungu.” and that meant a Whitie. “They are coming to get you like they did Solomon T. Plaatje.” Roualeyn reached in a bag and said “I ’am a Berg Scot, let me brim your glass, Lets toast to the English the Conquers,” and he laughed. “Who are you?”

Red replied “Poetry.”

Roualeyn laughed and said, “Poetry, I have never been jolly well licked by poetry?”

Murphy brought them their horses, and said, “They are saddled and ready for the mornings bright star.”

I am no hunter and want no part of it, Red said, It was nice to meet you but I must be go. Red walked away. He came to an open prairie. He walked on and skulls and animals were everywhere; animals of all kinds. This dream was too dark for Red, but he thought and asked, Are we forgiven for thinking you’ve traveled back in time when they travel here?′ Red found a village and went there. Children came up to him, smiling and singing. This made Red happy. He asked if they taught Poetry in their school, and they replied, Yes, so this made Red even happier. Red was suddenly transported into an alternative universe. He was in a garden where a dog was on a roof top barking at him.

Roualeyn spoke, “You need to get up off that cardell, and you will rot on that cot. Where did you get a golden Puma from?” He asked.

Red was in awe, How did he get back to camp with them? Red awoke from this scary dream.

After Red awoke, he gathered his thoughts, and he was happy that Scratch was not harmed. Red joined Andy, Mathias and Boet at the office on the train. The team was talking about how the Europeans divided Africa, and the deaths of the people who built the railroads there.

“At least no one has died building the Poetry Train, once again,” Andy proclaimed, “Poetry saves lives!”

Boet spoke with sadness, “I found you all some more wisdom, but with sadness though. Ingrid Jonkers and the Sestigers. I watched a movie about her too, entitled ‘Black Butterflies.’

Andy sadly asked, “I wonder if Poets who’ve committed suicide would not have if there was the internet for them back then? Where they could be even slightly affiliated with people like them, or with similar issues that Poets go through? Because looking here online, there are many.”

Andy posted about it in the members group, Red suggested, Maybe it’s something needed to be talked about, maybe a Poet is being hurt or hurting and we don’t know.

“Okay,” Andy said, “But before I read her poem, ‘The Child Who Was Shot Dead By Soldiers in Nyanga.’ Keep in mind Red we are no mind Doctor and you know how I feel about things like that, but whatever comfort we can do, we can try.”

I understand Andy, and I’ll read this list here too, Red replied. It maybe hard to cope with things like that in an open forum circle, but hey, it is a Poetry group, and as you say Andy, Poetry saves lives!

Boet took a deep breath and said, “I’ll look into the Sestigers.”

“I believe everyone, we are at the heart of life here in Africa as I was telling Soetik Rebah Motsumi our love for animals is large, and I believe all creations started here. I have felt that since being a child, and you all know me, I go with my gut, but we Poets are crazy,” and Andy laughed.

Andy found information on the Sylvia Plath Effect. He looked out the window, and thinking about eternity, and how shitty people can be too, not thinking the death clock is ticking, and respect. Odd it is too. How some Poets tag onto attractive opposites of sex and &c. He and Red see this happening all of the time, depending on what’s taken place in private, but things like that just seem ’not right, when the internet is vastly open with other avenues. Dating sites and &c. ‘Just a bit eyebrow’d’ Andy thought, and he wondered if other Poetry folk notice this too. Andy laughed, and read out-loud what he was reading, “Valuing such external factors may harm Poets’ mental health, they speculate, because high levels of creativity require people to ‘defy the crowd’ and ignore what other people think. That means eminent writing could produce more stress leading to a higher incidence of mental illness. Poets may not garner the same benefits from writing that other writers do because Poems seldom form a narrative.

“Poetry climbing ranks,” Andy laughed and said, “Poets are like roofers. They are important when needed.” Andy read this too from the rest of Deborah Smith Baileys’ article on apa.org. It’s very possible that writing Poetry may have kept Sylvia Plath alive longer than she would have... No really, ya think?” Andy laughed and said, “They will be killing me. Respect, like in marriage, key, it’s the key, there must be respect for Poetry!”

Boet was researching too, and spoke, “Your American Poet Edgar Allan Poe says, “Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence-whether much that is glorious-whether all that is profound does not spring from disease of thought from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect. They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. In their gray vision they obtain glimpses of eternity.... They penetrate, however rudderless or compass less, into the vast ocean of the light affable.”

Red laughed and said, Ya and I have seen you looking into eternity.

“You know it Red, and th’Wicked Papoose Caboose, where true appreciation will stand, and maybe that’s when say for instance, Poets from America would give Charlie more respect,” Andy stated, “Excuse me everyone, I ’am going to get us some coffee.”

Red, Boet and Mathias were reading, and using the art of listening as the train rolled through Botswana.

Andy came back, and said, “Regardless of praise, folks be tripping without just. Respect is the key to success, just a little bit of showing respect, just a little bit, that’s not too hard, no effort to me, comes down to, as I mentioned before, how one is raised, or ones own respect for life and others. Trueness baby, trueness, so Poet on up, even if you are down, be that Poet even if you are the only one in your town, or country. You got me. In other words, don’t let anyone punk you out.”

Boet spoke, “Sounds to me that most of America is nothing but a bunch of spoiled brats locked up to a video game or a dumb phone, but anyways, I love this here by Marcel Proust, ‘Everything great in the world is created by neurotics. They have composed our masterpieces, but we don’t consider what they have cost their creators in sleepless nights, and worst of all, fear of death.’ So with that said, games and apps are what disturbances?”

Red laughed and replied, Ya especially when they are junk. Oh we don’t stress it, but we are tired of it all making us look bad, we picked up on the disgruntling in Poetry Train America, but we do have proof, look at all of the 2016 presidential debates and statements, enough said.

Andy spoke, “Let me add Red, like Beethoven, isolation, I won’t say Despair, but Doom we have too,” and Andy laughed, “Genius possession, a life of hell, abuse, heartbreak. Let the Poetry play on, because the passion can save ones life. Even if one’s world or country is about to collapse, pass on the Poetry, love your Poetry!”

“Okay this Poet Diederik Johannes Opperman, best known as Dirk led us to consider Rock Art as Literature,” Boet said.

“Like we do cave art, acceptable.” Andy replied.

“These Sestigers, they have powerful messages to say,” Boet adds, “This Chris Barnard may have written about you two clowns.” Boet laughed, “Just kidding, his movie, Paljas is about a station masters family in a remote town, and gets the opportunity to work through their problems when a circus clown enters their lives.”

Red mentioned too about the film. A family’s life in the Karoo, in a semi-desert area in South Africa is changed when a traveling circus leaves behind a clown. Yes, that’s us.

Mathias laughed, and said, “Yes, you see, protest Poetry stands the test of time.”

Andy laughed, and said, “My oh my, this land is beautiful, so beautiful. Nice, we have two more fine movies to promote, such talented actors and actresses. Thanks Boet, you are doing a great job, appreciated & charm’d... It says here that someone said Christiaan Johan Chris Barnard couldn’t write, well his movie proved different. I love that. Just takes time, and all falls into place. E-railroad tetris.”

“Well in this case we are going to steal you two from America & Canada ya ya as you say,” Boet said and laughed.

From all read and heard, I don’t think the Sestigers’ manifesto was naïve regardless of opposition, Red proclaimed. Chris Barnard pulled it off with his screenplay Paljas, when he used the brute with the guns, and my heart was pounding, because I thought he was going to shot Willem. Red looked at Andy and said, and Willem reminds me of Andy.

“Good call Red on both.” Andy replied.

“The Sestigers were like us,” Boet spoke out-loud reading, “Or us like them because they gather together at Jan Sebastian Rabie and his wife Marjorie’s house in Onrus, and spent hours in intellectual debate.”

Red and Andy were silent, using the art of listening as Boet read, and they felt Boet was a great new member to the PoetryTrain.com team.

Boet spoke as he read, “Uys Krige inspired a whole generation, including himself says Albert Louis Sac. Andy he wrote for the screen too. He had given lectures on Lorca and Neruda, linking the intimacy of Poetry with the great events of public life. Jan Rabie followed in Uys Kriges’ footsteps with an interest in science fiction, and called him Uys of Space. Uys Krige looked at the Afrikanerdom with a critical and loving eye from the inside and outside.”

Andy spoke, “Ya ya, Botswanas’ Poet Onalethuso Petruss Ntema just sent us a video to promote. I love it when he says oneBlood to us. Touches my heart, Poetry breaking the chains of prejudice. That’s what oneBlood means for me.”

Red and the rest of the team smiled.

“I asked him to make a Poem-video, because his book trailer for his book ‘Souls Seeds’ is impressive,” Andy said. “We talked about place, Poets place and how unique videos are that show this to the viewer.”

Red smiled and said, I got the ’I ‘am the Voice of a Shadow’ poem-video uploading, launching soon.

Boet spoke, “Going back to the sadness and madness, let’s put on them same pants again. Love seems to stall things, doesn’t it?”

Andy looked at Boet, and didn’t say a word.

“Ingrid Jonker has inspired many, but then again she could have more,” Boet said. “I know nothing though, but just thinking. I hope I ’am strong about things.”

Andy stood up, looked around and said, “Keep being alert Boet, keep being alert! As Andre Brink would say to us Poets.” Andy sat back down. “Andre never lost his courteous manner, and Ingrid Jonker spoke from the page, and that’s what lovers do. The Gentleman and the Lady: they were the Afrikaans Romeo and Juliet of the Afrikaans literary world.”

“Ingrid wrote her poems on the bus and dreamed of having a study like André did,” Boet said, “They would love the Poetry Train. In Poetry, every day is a physical, spiritual and financial struggle, and is underestimated.”

Red added in, There are many Ingrids around us, and we don’t notice them. Dreams, talents or desire to live a life of dignity without poverty, but that’s what makes us tough, literary Poet tough.

“We are on the Brink of something,” Boet said and laughed. “We have a ‘Flame in the Snow’, the translations of love letters of André Brink and Ingrid Jonker. An article on litnet.co.za by journalist Karin Schimke, and Poet Naomi Meyer.”

“Where’s the snow in Africa, it is winter here?” Andy asks.

Red added in, Yes it is. Reading here, Naomi Meyer says, It is part of the human condition to be trapped inside language, and Andre Brink asks, Can translation help to open up the worlds of other people?

“That’s a great question.” Andy said, “But Andre answers with a question. Where else could it begin?

He also says, Perhaps the simplest place to start is not with translation, but with each person undertaking to learn another language.”

Fascinating, Red said, Naomi Meyer says there is Language Imperialism, and if we don’t learn another language, or try, it is pure laziness. English wins, and that is so true. English versus Afrikaans language, and yes, I was just thinking this, what about learning, and translating Poetry into Zulu too.

Boet added, “Naomi also mentions the importance of reading to children.”

Andy replied, “Yes to build the foundations of memory and imagery. Love this here too, Reaching across the various abysses that divide us, Poetry the bridge, as in oneBlood. Mambo yeah yeah, is about unity. Mathias wouldn’t you agree?”

Boet added, “Ingrid loved Walt Whitman.”

Mathias had this look on his face looking at Red and Andy and asked, “Are you alert for Danger?”

Red said with a new look on his face, I ’am always on Red Alert, and Mr. Walklemon Whipagla has come back to join us.

Andys’ facial muscle tightened and saying, “It’s okay to be at three places at once, past, present and future. We are good like that.” In a louder tone of voice Andy spoke, “Poetry are rivers that rise and go, and we are marking its existence and its flows, so what do you know Whipagla? We hear nile Crocodiles are in Florida, have you? They say they go to libraries here, and eat all the books. Do you know anything about this?”

“No to your last question, that maybe so Mr. Sandihands, but then again we have Rhinos that destroy trains too,” Mr. Walklemon Whipagla replied with a grim grin on his face.

Red laughed and asked, Me and Andy think you work for the Royal Society of Poetry, so is that a fact?

“I may,” Mr. Walklemon Whipagla replied. “Ivory, horns, skins and bones. Books are pricey too. There are Poet hunters out there.”

“More than that Mr!” Boet adds in, “Zebras, Lions, and Gorillas too. Books build our country, as animals are like us, a part of Africa.”

Andy spoke looking into Whipaglas’ eyes, “As bad as those Trump boys. They lie about giving the left overs of meat to random people in the safari, or the hungry, and they left the elephant hanging.”

Mr. Walklemon Whipagla, “Just as bad as you circus clowns, you are like them.”

Red, How can you claim that?

“I have my hunting hunch.” Mr. Walklemon Whipagla replied.

“Red, I think he wants us to write a comic novel, he wants tragedy but it will be comical.” Andy said. “We have desire, we have need, unlike success and filth, we will take our own path effect, defects and all, and please do not claim we are in this together and all messed up, when people like you have un-screwed, let’s say- torn the world apart.”

Andy isn’t clowning around right now, is he? Red asked knowing all knew the answer.

“You are not my favorite sit down comedian Andy.” Mr. Walklemon Whipagla stated.

Red laughed and said, This is what’s funny-, we have more subscribers than you, and we do it with Abraham Lincoln American pennies. Try to scratch that one off, and with that, this is my, let’s say Scratch, red alert to you.

“I still can’t get over these Trump boys, they’d have Africa in bad shape if they had political power here, and hey maybe they do, that’s why they kill here.” Andy stated with slight anger. “So tell me about this Royal Poetry Society, are they, well you tell me, bias as we are as Poetry Historians?”

Mr. Walklemon Whipagla looked out the window.

Andy he must be having a flash back, Red said.

“He’s like a novelist Red, making things up.” Andy said.

The train made a sudden stop, and threw Mathias forward disrupting his studies.

Mr. Walklemon Whipagla was still looking out the window, and spoke, “Hmm let’s see here. Maybe a Rhinoceros is standing a chance, unlike you all, with your poetry train. Where’s your horn?”

Andy tele-thought to Red, This guys accusations of us poaching Poets is about to make Andy do something he may regret, and when Andy told Red about this that’s when Boet stood up to Mr. Whipala, and said, “It really is international heritage worth protecting, like the Rhinos because in the act of protecting Poets’ Poetry, we also protect ourselves. If you think about all the opportunities their Poet Igloo Bill holds for a whole international society, then it should trump the idea of how it can benefit individual people. It will create careers of many sorts, careers that are there to protect the Poet like the Rhino, to study the Poet. Reading and listening to bring people in to appreciate the Poet, and much more.”

“It’s not a crisis.” Mr. Whipala replied.

“Well, it would be if, someone rapped your daughters Poetry,” Andy said, “Did I hit home in how dire the situation is without us, us talking clown heads telling you it is so?”

Red was looking out the window but listening.

Mr. Whipala replied, “I didn’t commit any literary crime.”

Maybe not, but you are obstructing literary justice. Red proclaimed as he watched police taking down a resisting poacher outside the train. The poachers had chased a Rhino, and killed it on the railroad tracks.

“Look, there is a baby Rhino. It must be trying to hide.” Andy said, he then sat down, and looked at Mr. Whipala, and thought, ’Unlike us you fool. “We put our lives on the line for Poetry.”

Mr. Walklemon Whipagla fumbled around with papers inside his shirt pocket and said, “Anytime you all like, I have a one-way exit permit for you all. No more Columbus around here, ever hear of Christopher Hope? The way white people and their territoriality and testosterone, as you all do, if you can’t kick, shoot, ride or eat it, what good is it? When I hear the word ‘Africa’, I want to know who’s using it, meaning I don’t want you all using the word Africa.”

Andy argued back, “You are out of your African tree. As Christopher Hope was encouraged by his mother. My mother loved my Poetry skills, obsession. We Wappello like that.”

Boet stepped in the argument, “Poetry was the major means of protest, says Hope. It was the way to annoy the hell out of the authorities and say something. I’ve spent my entire life looking for something like home. I am homesick. I found this career with Red and Andy, and we are not changing the world, we are to undermine it.”

“No, you’ll always be like a Whiteboy running.” Mr. Walklemon Whipagla stated.

Red stood up and said, Bessie Head was correct when she said, ‘I have observed that people who torture and trouble life in a wide radius around them, do so because they cannot come face to face either with their own errors or the errors of history.’ I think it’s best, if you find a seat in another car.

Boet stood up and spoke, “Alright now Mr. Walklemon Whipagla start walking away. We are done being hospital to you. They have done nothing wrong, so carry on with your bad self.”

Mr. Walklemon Whipagla, “Join the herd, join the herd, and mark my word, mark my word.”

Andy replied, “So you want to sling some words? That’s hilarious. In all due respect Walk Whip, we are already a part of the herd so don’t trip. Red contact Reina-Marie Loader and tell her we want to officially join the herd, and tell her we found a scratch and sniff, trying to be stiff, and we got a whiff and it can be a fresh kill, if they will. Everyone let him stay, you see what will happen, if he leaves. He will fall into machination mode, and to kill him with kindness is swift and bold. So Mr. Walklemon Whipagla have a seat welcome to the Project p-r-o as in professional and ject as in inside projectory story so let us roll and ride! Treat us like the Wild Buffalo Bill Show my boy. The weight of history is amazing.”

Mr. Walklemon Whipagla walked away and did not say a word.

Boet laughed and said, “I love this, you two are like a Cousteau with a Poetry Show, ha ha ha ha, love it.”

Let’s go see Map Ives about these Rhinos, Red suggested. This is how we challenge ourselves. We shun when we need to. Contemplate forever when have to. Rhinos in the morning. We have to love it.

Mathias smiled and said, “We are at the Okavango Delta, Africas’ wild oasis.”

Boet read out loud about Map Ives and gave his ops in, “Passion should come from your heart. Map Ives has passion, he’s also revealing his shield against Americanism, ah maybe Mr. Whipagala thinks this too, and you two are a foreign balance... We are unique minds Map Ives describes, and calls out for... I say we, because I am a part of the team.” Boet smiled and said, “We don’t care about a large house, but we care about a large train to make the world a better place. He wants us to spark wild life conservation on the train.”

“I love how he says, Lions roam the outskirts of time, and how they eat his mothers’ roses,” Andy said, “Here is the place where we whisper spirit.”

While they were conversing about Poetry, Map Ives and Rhinos, the Rhino that was killed was air lifted off of the railroad tracks, so the train began to move along.

“Rad! You two are going to have to make your fore, go to the Rhinos well, and carry a pale of water on your head. You must walk with a pale on your head and read a book,” Boet said laughing, “Just like her, they call her Unity, Unity Dow, a Poet and a Judge, and that’s what she had done when she was a kid. May she read the Poet Igloo Bill, and Operate the Jester.”

Sing Rad’

Boet clapped his hands and chanted his poem, ‘Sing Rad’


aye, ay-

ya ya way

em em, em em way

Poem offspring,

Poet refugees

Poem liberties,

Poet bold and free

It’s not the less you know

the better you are


Strength for the weak

No longer who you know

And you’ll go far

No reserve, see

Wise above

Star destiny

aye, ay-

ya ya way

em em, em em way

Applause Applause, Red said, Hope after hope, dream after dream.

Andy looked at the mountains, and hill after hill, and he applauded too.

They came to their selves, they loved sitting down. Nomads at heart though.

Andy laughed and said, “Seriously, we are going to need clown stuff, you know make up and gym suits.”

They all laughed.

“Red alert,” Mathias said, “Unity Dow will make you rethink. All three of you are thinking wrong. Love in a glare, love’s in the air. The things you cannot see, lost time. Time to think, how do you grow? Answered wisdoms’ part of the past, part with the future. Take with our future, in the past of the part. What you and me, all of us lost was art. The Star we are. Boet that was a beautiful poem. The train is good for us, and we will love the journey.”

“Holy river horse train man,” Andy said smiling, “I ’am going to make a book on the Poetry E Train Africa, a Google Book Shelf. Maybe with hash tags, #oneBlood #jointheheard. What do you all think?”

Red replied, On the book cover like graffiti. Yes that is great. Heard! Ha ha...

“Everyone,” Andy asked for everyone’s attention, “I had to be like that Boet, to break the walls of the 21st Century, my kind of diplomacy. Why are there walls in the first place? That’s why the trump of greed has to go, any kind of trump, and yes I am aware of Danger, and she didn’t want to be separated from her brothers’ Doom, and Dread. What constitutes the good? We are all in great trouble. The Poetry Train is a inter-cultural exchange train where anyone can celebrate without supremacy. Language breaks boundaries, most of language travels.”

“Yes Andy we must break down as Mantsetsa Marope tells us, sustainable literary literacy,” Boet said as he read.”

People who don’t read, don’t enjoy Poetry. Red suggested. Language walls.

“Styles of expression,” Andy said.

Boet slapped his hands on his legs and said “Yeah yeah, Poetry is a structure, a defense of Peace that can be created. We should all speak the Will of Peace. Unity through diversity, un-folding the flag of Peace.”

Red and Andy looked at each other and laughed, “This guy is good, he is getting good,” Andy said, and Red finished what had to be said, We are unity, and we read and listen to diversity. We have been at the helm of his realm for a while, and each day our mind scope is, we shall say, supersonic expanding’. The future must know the walls of Poetrys’ intolerance. Poetry mandate 2110, 100 years of the Poetry Train. It starts with what’s thunkin’ in the brain.

“We are digital cave art, digital petroglyphs,” Mathias said, “Bless the Poetry Train.” Mathias pointed outside and said “Divuyu, and her four main Hills, Male Hill, First Wife, Female Hill, and Child. The slippery land of the invisible, where the rock that whispers are.”

The train rolled past the Slippery Hills, known as Tsodilo Hills. They saw the San People rock art on the walls of rock as they passed by. There was a red Rhino, geometrics, maybe cattle too of art work, but there was rain stains. The art was red; the rocks and land had its natural hues mauve, orange, yellow, turquoise and lavender.

“Look I see wild and domestic animals,” Andy said pointing as the train moved. “We are in the bush, and what is next around the corner?”

Boet laughed and said, “Andy’s looking for a Texas armadillo in Tsodilo.”

“Wait, wait, we have to stop here,” Andy proclaimed. “I was right I just told you all this, and to first actually in a chat with Canadian Poet Rebecca M. Cuevas, and then as I mentioned to Soetik Rebah Motsumi, here I feel too, is the beginning of the human world, in fact I gut-know this. We have followed the mystery. The Muse of Poetry spoke to us.”

Red scratched his head smiling.

“Let’s say our Elephant hearing listened as they do or our Rhino hearing too, and Poetry is our horn, or tusk. Although gentlemen as we are Poetry Time Lords, here it is to think, listen to the echo, ’Memory is the key for the day to always be. Where future is past to see, how, now.”

Everyone looked at each other.

Boet was on it, looking online. “It feels like a prayer, and we are dancing inside. Earlier I felt the train was a cave, but a cave that moves.”

Red and Andy looked at each other, and smiled.

Boet was on it again, and shook his head and said, “You two, well now we are doing digital or printable cave art. Let’s say as the San People did back then, when they created the animals they felt most worthy on the rock walls here. We are doing the same thing, the most worthy, Poets, and Trains as they would also be with the four elements. Railroad ties are like Poets marching into time.”

“Red we must stop here and camp, firelight and all,” Andy suggested with concern. “We need to see this Python sculptured on Male Hill there. You are thinking what I ’am thinking?”

Yes, Red replied, Can we call you Spearhead Andy? And Red laughed.

Andy replied “Check this out Red, go into Electric Owl mode, and look at the Cape where we arrived, now remember America by New Orleans, the perimeter measuring somewhat, and then Canada, where Sitting Bull and the others escaped, Montana and Washington, rivers, the escape route. Both places were escape routes, and I get the same feeling about here. Something is here Red.”

“You two are what I’d call Poetry Archaeologists.” Boet claimed. “Poets are traditional historians.”

“Gentlemen,” Andy claimed, “Poetry is like water, and this place is where water was at the beginning of the world. Joining the Herd of Poets, the herds of animals and listening to Poetry has led us here, to where I believe life began.”

Red asks, So you are saying that art opens here, the inner world and the world-beyond-sight held in common belief by all human cultures? Early conceptions of beauty and the sacred?

“Yes,” Andy replied and thought, ‘We have to go full circle here.’

“Ew, this is some good stuff,” Boet said. “I’ll go to the Conductor to stop the Train.”

Andy consider also the other two places here, Blombos and Apollo 11 Cave? Red suggested.

“Indeed,” Andy replied, “Soetik Rebah has helped.”

“The mind of a Train and Poetry” Boet said. “I’ll go get the Conductor to stop the Train. Oh maybe we can find us each a Lady here.”

“Red did you notice the art is red, oneBlood red?” Andy asked. “Red alert Red, things are blending, a new color, a peaceful color, a new color, called Peace, like blue was new. Everything a new blue.”

Andy we could go there and see fires, and reading here online, we can be never seen again, it is a risk to get off the train, Red said, the Land of the Invisible, so I get your alert, everything blue. Let’s go to the slippery Mountains of the Gods, and rock and roll humanitys’ cradle.

They both tele-asked, ‘A Lady here?’

They both looked at each other and smiled, and gave each other a high five and said, ‘Great reverse, and a great forward.’ The rock is going to whisper about the sacred life, and tell us why the spirits were angry or are still, and good was no more. Animal killing was the reason why. The power of the landscape, and Poetry.

Boet returned with the Train Conductor, and the Conductor said, “In Botswana, more lions die from human actions of protecting livestock than from trophy hunting. Rhinos too somewhat. The ratio is six for every lion hunting as a sport!

Andy was in awe, the water, the clouds, the birds, and the Elephant he saw walking along the bank near the railroad.

Red was in memory relapse, remembering his dream, and the Elephant cries when they were shot down by the hunters. Red snapped out it and said, There are many hidden treasures here, so, have no fear of ancestral spirits dwelling on the hills, including hyena, and Red laughed.

“Including Leopard!” Boet said nervously.

They all were wide eyed, and the Train Conductor said, “Bushveld woodlands, There are mean Porcupines here.”

Andy made a scoffing sound because Andy loved Porcupine Poetry and asked, “So like this Leopard is cool?”

The Train Conductor laughed and said, “No, the Leopard is, I would say thirsty, and that is something you four should think about.”

“Well, there is water right there,” Andy replied. “What’s good for the Elephants are good for us. You see Mr. Train Conductor, we are part of the herd now.”

The Train Conductor laughed and said, “You are, are you?”

Ya ya, Red said, We on time like that, we are family.

“Beware of hunters, Buffalo, and that Leopard, you hope, is not being hunted.” The Train Conductor warned them. “Baboons are known to hunt them, Lions mainly. That’s a male Leopard. I’d say he is great at hiding remains too.”

It looks like he’s going away through the trees, Red said.

The train made us a private stop for the Poetry Train team.

“Okay, Good luck.” The Train Conductor said as he closed the door to the train.

Andy raised his eyebrows, looked around, and asked, “Wait, wait, wait, where’s the nearest Train Station? And plus we have much luggage.”

“Animals are afraid, and afraid of each other,” Boet said, “Poetry will save us.”

Mathias spoke, “Yes, only we can bog us down, so that’s why we cannot walk in the sand and get stuck. The sand roads are deep. Brushveld it is.”

The Train Conductor opened the door, and said, “You can leave your things you don’t want to take on the train. I’ll wait here for an hour for you. Don’t make me wait! What are you waiting for?”

They all looked at each other, left their things on the train, and walked to the Python Cave.

“Man I want to see a Giraffe.” Andy proclaimed.

“We won’t with that Leopard up there looking at everything through tree leaves.” Boet said.

Like him, let’s do what we do best, hunt, hunt the mystery and adapt, Red said. This is the realm of mystery.

“Nature puts things in the oddest of places, Mathias said, “Hopefully it’s every animals holy day, so we won’t be hunted.”

“I hear that.” Andy replied. “Oh my, look aw, it’s just a baby Elephant.”

A baby Elephant wanted to play hide and seek with a bird, further more swatting them with her truck.

Andy laughed and said, “Yes, this calf is cooling me out. This is better than the zoo, and for sure the news of one slaughtered.”

One about two foot taller came out of nowhere, and went right up to them, and yelled out a Elephants, ‘Roar!’ One could imagine about her mothers whereabouts, and her mothers’ roar.

“They want to be friends,” Mathias said, “But where is her mother?”

Andy laughed, looked at everyone and said, “You all loving this? This little girl right here can knock us over.”

Andy the Poetry Train has returned us to the wild, Red said laughing.

“I ’am loving this, living the best I can, and using my senses and memory like never before,” Andy replied.

“I love Elephants,” Boet said, “Shame on some Chinese for their cruelty and damnation to the poachers. The irony is that I don’t suppose ivory and Rhino horn have any medicinal properties.”

“So we are all learning to be with the herd, you all ready?” Andy asked and proclaimed. “Let’s find this ancient ritual ground, and in the cave. The shaman is listening in the chamber hiding, and watching us.”

I want to see the giant Snake circle the land for water, Red requested. A mud bath too.

“Maybe the Afrocks lost their mothers in the bushveld,” Mathias said.

“Red from what I learned the giant will be literally squeezing too.” Andy said. “Snakes called Afrocks, hmm Poetrocks. Guess what you all? We forgot our laundry.”

Everyone laughed.

The older female let out a roar of a growl kind.

“They are probably hungry,” Mathias said. “We are almost there. We must look for their parents as we walk, these two will follow us.”

The baby calf made a loud snorting sound. The older one wanted to give Red a hug with her trunk, and everyone laughed.

Andy was in awe of the volcano looking small hills. They were grassy and steep to the point. So what was the wisdom of the four hills; were they like the Twin Mountains in Canada?

“We are their family now.” Mathias proclaimed. “But we are the endangered ones. We as humanity stepped out of nature.”

“Yam yam but we four are here now.” Andy replied, and Andy passed out some yams to all of them and the Elephants from one of his satchels.

“Listen for the muscles of the Rock Python.” Mathias warned. “Even their babies come out of the egg striking.”

“Yes, they have a slick sound to them, slowly constricting,” Andy said, and laughed, “This is a big difference from street stranglers,” He looked around for the Python, and sung, “I ’m Hot Blooded, I’m Hot Blooded,”

“Shhhh,” Boet jested and whispered, “We are land fish here.”

“What?” Andy asked smiling “I like Foreigner.” and he laughed again.

Boet shook his head.

The birds were the only thing really easing the tension they all four had. Andy put his hand over his mouth and said, “There it is. The Deities welcome us.”

The mysterious rock did resemble a Python.

“Look there is an entrance here.” Boet said, “It has been worn smooth. Let’s go inside.”

“Your head first.” Red demanded.

They all looked at each other.

“Just like a Python eats its victims, head first,” Mathias said and laughed.

The giant must be basking, and changing its skin.” Red said.

“Let’s look at the art first.” Andy suggested.

They all agreed to do that before they went into the cave.

These here are Giraffes. Red proclaimed as he observed the art on the rock walls.

“These have to be Rhinos.” Boet proclaimed.

“We are on the Nqoma hill,” Mathias said “Divuyu is right there,” as he pointed to the hills direction. “The children hills are the rest of them we see.”

“Notice there is no fire wood,” Boet said. “Look we found melons.”

Something just walked over them, Red said while looking around for what has walked on the melons.

I never studied tracking and prints of animals, Red said and laughed. Red saw two parrots in a tree, and they were looking at them.

Andy walked up to Red and nudged Reds shoulder, and what they were looking at was a Giraffe.

The tallest one the world has ever seen.

“Man, my heart is beating faster.” Andy said.

“They sure can run fast.” Boet said. “Let’s hope they too are not looking for their young.”

Andy is like a Giraffe, Red claimed, With two modes of locomotion, fast and super-fast.

Andy laughed and said, “Trained Giraffe would be perfect for our clown show. We’d have to have a ladder. I like its hair, its mohawk looking hair, all the way down from the back of its head, down its neck, to its back. This is great everyone, they are taller than the trees. Look birds are all over them.” Andy laughed and sang, “I ’am what I eat, trees.”

Boet laughed and said, “Lots of metaphors here. You two are like them in many ways. Loyalty to Poetry worldwide, seek new things, as in Poets. You are constant, persistent as in constant as in change itself. Steady. You are team players.”

Andy laughed and said, “Well, we are Davids and that there is Goliath.”

“Andy you have always had a higher view of things,” Mathias said. “You two stand tall for Poetry, and you two stick your necks out for Poetry.”

I am having a great time, this is like going back in time, Red said, I love it. Thank you Mathias.

“Me too, this is very spiritual, and it makes me want to dance.” Andy said. Thank you Mathias.

“There are no secrets here, earth holds the memory of everything, of all the creatures which move upon it.” Mathias said.

“How can we ignore this present, moment, into which has no name?” Andy asked.

We can’t clearly see, but faith tells me, God rules the world from here, Red said. Maybe we should find this mine for some holy water, because we don’t have much time, not unless we stay.

“These rock paintings are everywhere.” Boet said as they walked around looking at the art.

“This rock with the outline of Africa is just impressive, mind blowing.” Andy said as he sat down. He reached for some sand, held it for a moment, and let it all fall out between his fingers. Andy thought, ‘I don’t know what to think, maybe I shouldn’t think. Time, Andy thought again about the times here of long ago, and why so much art? Andy looked at the two Elephants, the Giraffe, and thought okay, where is the Python? Where is our symbol? In every smell, we have smelt?’ “All of the Ladies have gone to town or village Boet, and Cupid is busy somewhere else, doing love bow business, and Puck too” Andy said laughing. “We should be going back to the train.”

“Andy they are singing somewhere by themselves too.” Boet replied.

Yes, let’s get back to the Train, Red said.

“Let’s fly like eagles to the train,” Mathias said. “This place and animals do not want us to go. They will miss us as friends.”

“I hear that, the baby girl Elephant walking up to us like she did, is something I’ll never forget.” Andy said. “Heart, imagination, and memory is all we have, and all that remains there, remains there forever. As all here have. Eagles? Let’s walk like a Giraffe back, and see as they see.”

As all four of them walked back to the train. Andy walked close to Red and said, “Use your Poet camera eye. Seeds are sown onto our memory eye.”

Once back aboard the train Andy was in talks with Constantine Enyo about the Poetry Train and a Castalia Press... Andy looked at Red and said, “We need to know the San language, or languages nearby too.”

Yes, Red said. I ’am working on that. We also need to listen to the Poets.

“Yes, that’s what I was thinking too,” Andy replied, “Wished they had Poetry, well an alphabet. Hmm look where the alphabet gets us, back to the 0. Shhh Red,” Andy motioned and said, “No one complained, this part is not real, it’s in a book we write. They have sand-fever if we’re real.”

Red laughed and said, Imagine that, Andy I had wifi the whole time and it wasn’t mobile, it was sand jackers trying to shed word-shed, Orgcast and stuff.

Andy laughed and said, “Tried tellin’ folks get the heck off their phone, and read a book, if not at least from a laptop. Ya Ya!”

“Hey, I want to look at Poetry the old way, not the new way,” Boet said laughing, “Just crappin-ing, Hahaha, I’m learning.”

“Mr. Train Conductor, someone left the water running on the sink.” Mathias said.

“You think,” the Train Conductor replied, and it was silent for a moment.

“It has to go somewhere.” Mathias said.

The train rolled on, as the Train Conductor walked away looking at Mathias.

“Are you feeling what I ’am feeling?” Andy asked.

Maybe that depends, Red replied.

“Well, tell me when you do.” Andy replied back.

“You are feeling our Medu, and Medu is a SePedi word meaning roots.” Mathias said. “You are feeling our hide.”

“Reading about Thamsanqa “Thami” Mnyele and the Medu opens thought, does this cause conflict?” Mathias said asking, “Our art must become a process, a living, growing thing that people can relate to, identify with, be part of, understand and not a mysterious world a universe apart from them.”

“At first it might, only because of oppression and candy coated bull shit you could say,” Andy replied.

“As you can tell, unity has been tried, and there is always complicit psychological operations against the public.” Mathias said.

All of this is certainly heightening my awareness, Red said. Thamis outlook on art and the world is impressive. According to Judy Seidmans′ speech, he argued, under apartheid, and indeed throughout this globalized modern world, what we call art has been taken far away from our daily lives. Pictures hang in galleries and museums where most people never see them. Pictures are sold to the rich for more than a working person earns in a year, to remain hidden in their private living rooms. Thami spoke in outrage about how art is taken away from the community, even from the people who made it. This is something to consider with the Rising of Poetry.

Everyone was silent because they know the cruel and vicious cycle of those with money.

Red continues to educate the others, Thami rejected the approach that an artist makes art to make money. Rather, he searched for ways to create art for his people, for his community.

“We are doing that, Poetry for the people.” Boet stated.

We must not let people who are not part of our world tell us what our art is about. Red added, The same with Poetry. Red laughed and said, You know the type.

Andy was reading too, and said, “I like what Judy Seidmans says here you all, “It takes both vision and courage to make art that speaks to each and every one of us; especially during a time of repression and suffering. Here we go again trapped in the induced ’Let’s let History repeat itself mode.”

“I like this poem ‘To Those Who Follow in Our Wake’ by Bertold Brecht,” Boet said, and he recited the poem.

Red spoke, Poets in exile, another one caring for humanity and forced to leave, for the fear of death.

“I will get us some munchies and drinks,” Mathias said.

“Thanks!” everyone said in sync.

“You are welcome, keep wise on prior generations of Poetry.” Mathias said.

“Putting oneself in any part of the world in a war is some serious thinking.” Andy said. “As the Poet Mongane Wally Serote says, ’To heal is to heal, so heal in the manner you can heal.”

About the best we can do, Red said. We are following the wake, for sure.

The Lady with oranges returned and said, “Thank you for visiting our beautiful Botswana and experiencing its beauty.”

You are welcome, Red replied and asked, What is your name? My name is Red Regatta.

Red introduced everyone.

“My name is Mary Kago Lesmore, and it is nice to meet you…all of you. I hope you enjoy the oranges.”

When everyone was going to say a greeting to her, Mr. Walkemon Whipagala came into the train car.

Look, go back where you were. Red demanded, Mr. Officer Whipagala. We paid for this, go on now!

“Cow skin and shield,” Mr. Walkemon Whipagala replied, and went back to where he was seated.

“I don’t know why he has to be so grim,” Boet said.

“He must have some kind of man-rabies,” Mathias said laughing as he came back with drinks and food. “He wants to keep investors out of Africa, and he wants to keep the grim side bright. In other words, he is perpetuating the poverty here!”

Andy looked at Red, and it was a look that they needed to talk in private soon. “Let’s go pet some Cheetahs,” Andy said smiling.

Sounds fresh, Red replied, and said, Mary, It is limitless here, it’s like a song with a melody... Beautiful tones... As Red was looking at Mary and the beauty outside, he noticed a row line of those thorns he saw in his dream. Those red tipped, wait-a-bit thorns, thorn bob tree thorns.

Mary Kago Lesmore smiled, and walked away with more oranges.

Andy look at all the Zebras, Red insisted.

“Yes, beautiful.” Andy replied, “Look at all the animals to the left of them.” Andy wanted to tease Red, and sung, “Every Cowboy has a sad song.”

Red laughed, and looked at the animals.

“The land that does not deny.” Boet said.

“You can feel the peace.” Andy said to everyone looking at Red.

“Until you see a Cheetah,” Mathias said, “The Spirit of the Kalahari, and are you ready for your explorer program.”

“Yes”- they all replied.

“Okay, put on your tear marks like a Cheetah, because I wouldn’t want to be ya,” Andy said and laughed.

“We are about there.” Mathias said, “You know, strife is great for Poets.”

Andy laughed and said, “Yes, has to be. Because who knows Peace?”

Would Peace be like a brother and sisterhood of Lion like people? Red asked.

“Yes, and when they speak, a gong is sounded, and the Elephants arrive with the greatest minds of our time.” Andy said. “Like mountain climbing, where we finally get to the top, and unfold the flag of peace.”

Boet laughed and looking at Mathias he said, “These men are the real deal deal, unlike others who look at people here as exotic primitives.”

The Train Conductor came by and said, “I forgot to mention. It is nice to have you all here. My Grandfather told me stories about when he was a boy and film director Geoffrey Barkas came here to film movies in the 1930′s about Africa.”

Thanks Red replied, We do the same but with ink and paper, and we are Americans. Barkas done Operation Crusader, and we have our own entitled ‘Operation Jester.’

“Oh that’s right, he and artists made a complex of deception involving six miles of dummy Railway, and a dummy train.” The Train Conductor laughed and said, “You can learn a lot from a dummy.”

Andy laughed, “I almost forgot about that one, nice.”

Red laughed and said, You can learn a lot from a Poet too.

“Yeah yeah, can we have, oh never mind,” Boet said, “I was going to ask for Lion clothes, but, oh, we don’t kill Lions.”

“They too are vanishing over trophies,” Andy said. “Hunting is an obsession, like a disease. Do you want to know what? If these people who hunt loved animals, then why kill them? Me, and I won’t because I know the difference, but the thing is, I’d have my own zoo. I love animals, so, if I did not know wrong from right, then I’d have a zoo of living, and not a building full of heads of animals’ dead and what of.”

It’s not enough that people kill each other, Red said, Now, even more people have to kill endangered animals. Man, look at this tall grass.

“Ya, and farther back, do you see them black spots with horns?” Andy asked. “Amazing how much money people spend to kill animals. Everyone we are going to have to promote, and help establish ecotourism. We don’t want these animals to go away like the giant wolves of Canada.”

Red knew Andy was upset about a lot of things, but one thing for sure, no one, no human can take away his love for animals. Andy was crying inside.

“We to oppose this, must be as strong as these Cape Buffalo aka Black Death, and defend the herds of all. With brains and brawn.” Andy said. “We are professional Poets, licensed to stop this with love and words. No matter how thick it gets, target on.”

“Diamonds, Animals, Slavery, what else?” Boet said, “Trophies to glorify their own macho natures. Sickening is what it is!”

“Red, it is important.” Andy said, “We must groove on this, and create a beat.”

Ten/Four Red said... Vocabulary spear sharpening now.

“Okay Gentlemen, let’s go on a word safari,” Andy said.

And they all got ready to enjoy some time with the animals of Bostwana...

Learning and Listening.

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