Tuesday, October 11, 2016

|| michael sloary ||

Michael Sloary
the walking Bauxite
of the Surinamese land
his words the pure
gold from the golden
womb of the earth

Michael Sloary
the nomadic Michael Sloary
his head drinks in the
wine of the tropical sun

He rests not
under the shade of
the trees burning
words drive him on
Sloary is their trusty companion

With the echo of bird-song
he creates his poems that
speak of the shriek within
sometimes of the joy
of the heart

Michael Sloary, like a miner he mines
the minds of the people
of this sub continent

Week in and
week out the Dutch
weekly carries
the living document
of his mind's eye

Walking the land
Michael connects his
dust with the sabana dirt of Suriname

Oh, Michael, shooting roots of
insight into the earth
he wants to grow
the tree of Surinamese life

He hears the call of
the blank page, his hand writes
the language of peoples' heart
he has words for the gurrachbi
as he has a tale to tell
in the newspaper

Michael Sloary,
words fresh and new
like the sunshine
or the gold
of a new-dug mine.

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