Swinging.
The delight of my child, dappled sun on my knees
A home is built by my dad for his sons of wood high up in the trees.
Sunlighting the innocent child, in cool cotton, fair hair in the breeze.
This day will never end, the city so distant, closer to home are the mountains, the seas.
Swinging.
Swinging from hope to disillusionment.
This bitter sweet irony.
All the colourful promise, but not for all of the colourful people.
All the young boys in uniform, but not everyone has tools.
All the Royals in purple, but not everyone has toys.
Swinging.
This early delight morning rainy day.
No comprehension, no cohesion.
On who has control, of who cares for the bills to pay. Singing “This land is your land”…
But, it is not. It is my land.
Swinging.
Swinging from trust to delusion.
We have all this land, surely we can sew seeds and thrive.
They have all the power, to turn rich dark soil to white desert sand.
Swinging.
Swinging from light, to dark days.
It is the kind of countryside you can give everyone a sunny smile.
What kind of countrymen shift perception, giving labour, grateful sweat and generous submission and gracious generations, deep underground and shallow understanding, a life shifting hours to daylight spent watching the dial.
Swinging.
Swinging the vote, shifting the dial, shunting the promise of a good life further and further away from a fair trial.
Swinging.
Swing the pricetag of sweet fruit imported from our land.
I’m in a super market far up North, in a far away land.
This bitterest pill is the hardest to swallow.
I have never seen fruit this huge for sale on the shelves of my homeland.
Swinging.
Swing down South and the hoods are white.
The neighbourhoods are black, but the suburbs are white.
Swing the rope and their two eyes are white, and their teeth are too… too, too white.
Swinging.
Swinging their heads to and fro, seated in the stands.
All nations united, watching the game.
They stand together at each sporting chance of success.
They sit together with no sense of victory in sight.
Their Nationalists swinging their heroes by the neck of international shame.
Swinging.
Swinging my arms walking at your side.
Striding up the mountain for perspective, to taste a clear view, to take care of you.
Striving to dignity, comrade, struggling with my pride.
Swinging.
Swing the colours from our home windows, our national pride.
The blood runs dark in the gutter for justice is denied.
Daily, dark men and devious women work their dark deeds.
We vote and elect old vegetables instead of planting new seed.
Swinging.
Swinging from pillar to post, the next news each day.
Selling from harbour to coast, the sweet export frozen that day.
Selling the fruits of our labour, stealing our land.
I’m not sure of your Lords Laws, but this is not part of my family plan.
Swinging.
Royal purple robed, blue blooded partners who used to swing… in family trees. *
The press prints the trash, to minds so trashy and trashed, not new news in the gutter, now blowing in the breeze.
Paper used once that was once a forest of trees.
Read it in the paper, the lungs of this planet, the home for us leaches, dying by degrees.
Swinging.
Swinging the focus from front row to back line.
The nation is watching with interest keen.
Knowing each rule of this game.
Watching and ever ready to override the Referee.
Watching that “Strange Fruit, swinging in the sun and the breeze.” * *
Waiting to step forward and stop all knowledge, all access to this tree.
“Big Tree… Small Axe.” * * *
Swinging.
Swinging.
POETRY © Geoffrey Wright, 4th December 2024. Waenhuiskraal, Arniston, South Africa
Waenhuiskraal, Arniston, South Africa PHOTOGRAPHY © Geoffrey Wright, December 2024
SONGS QUOTED:
*
The Whole Point of No Return
Written by Paul Weller
Performed by The Style Council
* *
Strange Fruit
Written by Lewis Allan
Performed by Billie Holiday, 1930? Nina Simoné, 1930? UB40, 1980 BC (Before Cheese)
Billie Holiday
Nina Simoné
UB40
* * *
Small Axe
Written and Performed by Bob Marley and The Wailers
LYRICS REFERENCE :
The Whole Point of No Return
The Style Council
“Rising up to break this thing
From family trees the Dukes do swing…
Just one blow to scratch the itch
The laws made for and by the rich
It would be easy
So, so easy…”
COMMENTS :
“I have read it three times and every time there is something new ..!
It is beootiful Mr G .. and I am privelidged to be privy of your poem .. Swinging… that’s how I bit my lip as a child when swinging in Wynberg
Park .. and an elder said jump.. I will catch you, but I slipped between their fingers.. You have a wonderful way with words .. “
Mrs T