Botswana
I don’t want to go home
I’d like to roam
Around you more, although I’m
Sore, my dear
Especially my rear – who knew how many bones could be found in
The human derriere? Not to mention my knees:
Jeez.
Ouch. How stiff my bendy bits can get – and
Still: I cannot bear to leave until
I’ve had my fill
Of impala – said with a lilt by David as he tilts
His head to indicate (yet) another herd
Of bouncing flouncing
Antelope,
Or the quelea flocks that swarm like giant bees, then lift off
To swoop and seethe and fill the skies. The giraffe – oddly hard to see – like Spotted leafless
Trees –
That stand and stare, as if surprised to find us there, so lookie-loo:
Perplexed, seriously -
As we
Crane our necks, whispering where where? While Cor and David roll
Their eyes,
And sigh
Inwardly.
Botswana
I don’t want to go. I’m not through with you –
I haven’t quite become used to
Your hyenas lurking just beyond the dinner table at night,
Or chuckling maliciously in the dark
No doubt thinking how deliciously they would dine
If it weren’t for that (blessed)
Electric fence
Around our horses – and, I pray,
Our tents.
(Thanks to these ungainly beasts, I’ve Burrs stuck in me – from bum to
Feets -
Picked up one night, as I traipsed Behind our intrepid leader
- Reluctantly —to see
Pairs of hyena eyes and not much more: Hovering points of light
Just waiting for….)
But back to my lament: Botswana, I have not properly processed your music:
The universe of sounds
All around – the part of you that can’t be caught
In photo ops:
That thumps and whoops and whitters and howls and growls and peeps
And hoots and buzzes and yodels and rustles and twitters and taps and flaps,
Or sounds like drums and musical drains: and
– The baboons that
Yahoo to bring on the day – as well as to scare those pesky lions
Away.
(Thank you. I did not count
Baboons among my fauna faves
Until they saved
Us with their ruckus
From becoming, perhaps, a Jungly-type
Breakfust.)
Botswana: I’ve become quite a fan of your fallen trees -
I still need to ride across your back: clamber up your rocky shoulders –
Your cliffs and boulders
Popping with hyrax, and
Odd-looking cactus (poisonous)
Or topped with baobobs like naked chubby sentinels – O, hell,
It’s not right: I have only sat once on that granite ledge
In the twilight –
I’m getting old: I might
Forget
The river of sand twisting down below in the dusk.
What if it all fades: your kudu hills and your zebra plains –
– your gnus at a gallop, your fields of fuzzy grasses?
The loops that we must make around your impossibly thorny
Bushes?
(I’m proud of my
Resulting scratches: Nonetheless—
Thank god for my glasses:
I need both eyes to see
What might be lurking Over/under/beside me)
Believe you me, Botswana: I must stay. I can’t go away until my heart ceases
Its threats to explode
Each time there is an elephant or two … or more …
On the road, until I learn to breathe again
When
I hear them in the bush: trumpeting and thrashing about, until I feel
More at ease
And less like a
Potential snack
On the
Back of
My horse.
This entry was posted
on Thursday, July 9th, 2009 at 3:49 pm and is filed under Guest Comments.
You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.
You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.
By Shauna Luna
Botswana: I need a do-over
Botswana
I don’t want to go home
I’d like to roam
Around you more, although I’m
Sore, my dear
Especially my rear – who knew how many bones could be found in
The human derriere? Not to mention my knees:
Jeez.
Ouch. How stiff my bendy bits can get – and
Still: I cannot bear to leave until
I’ve had my fill
Of impala – said with a lilt by David as he tilts
His head to indicate (yet) another herd
Of bouncing flouncing
Antelope,
Or the quelea flocks that swarm like giant bees, then lift off
To swoop and seethe and fill the skies. The giraffe – oddly hard to see – like Spotted leafless
Trees –
That stand and stare, as if surprised to find us there, so lookie-loo:
Perplexed, seriously -
As we
Crane our necks, whispering where where? While Cor and David roll
Their eyes,
And sigh
Inwardly.
Botswana
I don’t want to go. I’m not through with you –
I haven’t quite become used to
Your hyenas lurking just beyond the dinner table at night,
Or chuckling maliciously in the dark
No doubt thinking how deliciously they would dine
If it weren’t for that (blessed)
Electric fence
Around our horses – and, I pray,
Our tents.
(Thanks to these ungainly beasts, I’ve Burrs stuck in me – from bum to
Feets -
Picked up one night, as I traipsed Behind our intrepid leader
- Reluctantly —to see
Pairs of hyena eyes and not much more: Hovering points of light
Just waiting for….)
But back to my lament: Botswana, I have not properly processed your music:
The universe of sounds
All around – the part of you that can’t be caught
In photo ops:
That thumps and whoops and whitters and howls and growls and peeps
And hoots and buzzes and yodels and rustles and twitters and taps and flaps,
Or sounds like drums and musical drains: and
– The baboons that
Yahoo to bring on the day – as well as to scare those pesky lions
Away.
(Thank you. I did not count
Baboons among my fauna faves
Until they saved
Us with their ruckus
From becoming, perhaps, a Jungly-type
Breakfust.)
Botswana: I’ve become quite a fan of your fallen trees -
I still need to ride across your back: clamber up your rocky shoulders –
Your cliffs and boulders
Popping with hyrax, and
Odd-looking cactus (poisonous)
Or topped with baobobs like naked chubby sentinels – O, hell,
It’s not right: I have only sat once on that granite ledge
In the twilight –
I’m getting old: I might
Forget
The river of sand twisting down below in the dusk.
What if it all fades: your kudu hills and your zebra plains –
– your gnus at a gallop, your fields of fuzzy grasses?
The loops that we must make around your impossibly thorny
Bushes?
(I’m proud of my
Resulting scratches: Nonetheless—
Thank god for my glasses:
I need both eyes to see
What might be lurking Over/under/beside me)
Believe you me, Botswana: I must stay. I can’t go away until my heart ceases
Its threats to explode
Each time there is an elephant or two … or more …
On the road, until I learn to breathe again
When
I hear them in the bush: trumpeting and thrashing about, until I feel
More at ease
And less like a
Potential snack
On the
Back of
My horse.
This entry was posted on Thursday, July 9th, 2009 at 3:49 pm and is filed under Guest Comments. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.