memoirs of a kangaroo in the sun.

My mother is my real definition of a full woman. She is the woman who left work every day at lunch time so she could breast feed each and every one of her children. She is also the one who held the fort down when my father was away for one scientific escapade or the other, in one country or another. She is the one who, when asked what he could bring her each time he was away, always answered with either a certain set of saucepans or a particular brand of cutlery. I personally would have asked for shoes or something... My mother is the woman who supported my father when he was running some crazy experiment in one of the bedrooms, she supported him even when she didn’t get it. My mother is the woman who still believes in true love. My mother is the woman who smuggled a pack of sausages for us in her handbag during school visitation days when home-cooked food was not allowed. She is the same person who always called relatives to tell them of an abrupt plan that needed me to retu...

That’s me at the back over there. No, not the one holding the large blue umbrella, further back… Yes, that one, the one with the knowing smile and a few drops of rain on my face from standing just slightly outside the umbrella. It’s okay if you don’t notice me at first, that’s how it usually is, and that’s how I’ve come to like it. I walked about ten kilometers to be at school today, but that’s okay because other than that, I may have had to go without lunch again. I was happy to come today; it’s been five long days at home. Five days without lunch. Five days of no movement because it was that time of the month and I could not afford those fancy sanitary towels that I saw in the television commercial through the window of the brick house that’s just on my way as I walk home every evening. My friends have warned me about passing by that brick house. They say that if one of the older boys catches you there after dark, you have to become his wife. I’m among the lucky ones;...

I'm in awe of this poetry... so the few custom made pieces I have, I intend to share sparingly.  Enjoy :-) I don't want to know about you, About those boys you talk with, on your phone, Or the girls, The ones you flash your heart to, and they laugh and you laugh, The ones you like to try and taste The ones who come and leave Empty tins, rolling Stones While I sit here waiting for you Gathering moss, Those running waters pouring where everyone pours As I quietly wait, running deep for your soul. I don't want to know. You're piercing my midnight thoughts While you and your boys, and girls Exchange morning thoughts each time you meet. You're the sack I poured into Which had holes, The shoes I sought to fill Which had no soles. I loved you deliberately Yours was whenever you felt like it So perhaps I don't want to know how you are And I'm okay with it. But am I okay with it? This bittersweet when you ...