For Him i Shall!....

Broken scenes and fragmented acts, mystical
 language,traces amid lines please communicate to him
 the contents of my life bearer and tell him i shall,
 for him i shall
break away out of the imprisonment of my humanly
 flaws.
That for him i shall! resist the urge of temptation from
the experiences of the coarse hair between my plumy
 feminine curves.
That for him i can learn to be selfless and make
 him earn my love without doing nothing at all
but taking me as I am.
Mystical language, make him understand that for his
 delight I can abandon mine life for ours, steer away
from being daddy's pride to
daily being Mrs 'his last name' and endevour the
capitalist relationship if his love be my
wage, if his appreciation be my reward and if his entire
being be the source of my livelihood, for him i shall!

By Lineo 'She-him' Nts'ohi  ( Lesotho )

photo credits: www.omgghana.com

Your Hanging Hair ........

Fingers laced within threads

Threads upon my pale face

Hanging down like silkened fibers

I touch each one asking for favor

A request I shall patiently await

And await is my game that I always play

Distance my only misfortune

Patience is the whistler of the game

Blowing from lips silenced by oceans between

Imagination kills the desire of being with

Whose waters of green unknown shall I swim against tides for

Each tide and bolt I evade would grain for my steps towards you

Pebbled sands once remote and unsteady with time do my feet now firmly become poised

But yet you are here in mine and I'm there in yours wiping away the dim thoughts

My tongue, has sipped the waters of your soul that were once parched

What a sweet taste and deep touch on your hanging hair.

By   Med Kanour and AS Lopez   ( Morocco and United States of America)

photo credits: www.abstract.desktopnexus.com

Decades of bullets....

Ouagadougou, Ouagadougou, Ouagadougou
See a procession of young mothers chattering their way
From water fountains in grenade torn sandals
And blood laced bras

Somalia, Somalia, Somalia
See the moon disappearing in a mass of gun smoke
Guns splitting the stars from the skin of night

Rwanda, Rwanda, Rwanda
This is a wound from which the pus of grief flows freely
Meandering through rock masses into the valley that lost its freedom

Timbuktu, Timbuktu, Timbuktu
I hear a rush of footsteps of sorrow
Rugged peasants carrying their compounds to far away valleys of flowers.

By Mbizo Chirasha ( Zimbabwe )

photo credits: www.http://www.uci.edu/features/2011/10/feature_wwp_111007.php

An ambitious generation...

Pushing 20

 

Goodbyes are messy,

 Agony guaranteed.

 The teary eyes,

 The prolonged hugs.

 The awkward urge

 To pour out one’s feelings.

 Would rather abide

 In the comfort

 Of familiarity.

 Plus there is no death

 In the cowards’ land.

 There

 Shall I pitch my tents?

But there is adventure

 In unknown territory.

 Here

 Possibly I’ll thrive.

 A fine line

 I will walk:

 My younger brother

 Says I’m a ‘grown-up’.

 My parents

 Refuse to accept this as fact.

 I suppose

 I am right in the middle.

But the world expects

 That I will shine forth:

 Produce

 The newest invention.

 Discover

 A miracle prescription.

 Conquer

 A stubborn economic principle.

 I’m pushing 20,

 The new 30.

 My peers

 Have performed wonders.

 One a business executive

 At the tender age of 21,

 Another

 A renowned billionaire

 At only 28.

“Hurry up!

 Make a name for yourself!

 Save the world!

 If not,

 Conquer the earth!”

 The pressure is great

 -Yet I must proceed.

 Let’s make

 Our thrilling fortunes

 But they might crumble.

 Should I hasten

 The work of Time?

Make hay I will

 Yet the harvest

 May delay.

 I will be an adult.

 I will struggle,

 I will sow,

 I will sweat.

 I will earn

 My maturity.

I’m pushing 20.

 Prove myself

 I must.

 Yes

 This is

 An ambitious generation.

 But a hastened fortune

 May disappear in a day.

By Tebogo H. Ndlovu  ( Zimbabwe ) 

picture source :  www.globalgiving.org

X marks the spot...

X marks the indelible spot,
I laid you to rest,
love of my life.
The clouds have gone grey and weary,
dark,
and turned their backs on me,
to receive your most pure spirit.
The void you have rendered me,
has left me numb and wasted.
Only memoirs,
of the passion we shared in abundant supplication,
will forever attempt,
to bring me closure to your departed soul.
I stand on your shrine,
your final home of serenity,
to try to fathom why the earth never gets satisfied on feeding,
taking away from ashes to dust what,
me and other mourners adorned in black,
hold their most prized possession.
In this world,
you have left me,
empty,
redundant and alone,
to face its' woes and worries,
through trials and tribulations.
Now I can say with courage:
I am alone...
X marks the spot,
I come to lay this wreath in my hands.
A beautiful embellishment,
of white flowers woven together,
to remind me of your unsurpassed and surreal aura.
Let the tears I drop down in torrential rains,
fertilize where you lay and give you refreshment and life forevermore,
let them water your soul and replenish the love you gave me,
in times you and I loved to experience.
Let them give growth,
to this bouquet I lay on you,
so that is grows and covers your lovely home,
to make it your earthly paradise.
X marks the spot,
which after all is said and done,
I desire to leave not... 





By Alex Nyasha Dube   ( Zimbabwe )

picture source ; www.sahistory.org.za

In death, silence reigns.....

In the midst of it all
when the burden of life has 
weighed on their shoulder
faces all gloomy 
hopelessly hopeless.

Weary hearts string melancholic melodies
a cry, silent in the world
yet shaking their inner beings.

It is in those moments
those instances
where, so to them it seems,
the soft embrace of death
can be a welcome companion
because in death
all they have been
forever locked, it shall remain
and to those above them
they become equal.

Nothing matters anymore
nothing really did
so in this death
silence reigns .


By Pardon Gwara  ( Zimbabwe )

photo credits: www.myafricatoday.blogspot.com

INDEPENDENCE AVENUE.....

I lost my home to a new road

And they said it was the gains of freedom

My humble burrow in the earth

Was plastered with gravel and tar

Eternally sealing my lips, my voice would never be heard

I yearn for the one they called the dirt road

For then my right to this land was respected

Every day I bear the weight of haulage trucks

Trafficking fellow brothers and sisters seeking the same end as I

My tiny legs knock

And are caught between the hardness of earth and

The hardness of the imposed rock above me

I hear them chant some comrades brave and outspoken

They sing “hapana chakanaka tonosangana kumastreets”

Their voices, distant seem louder than mine

Yet still fall on concrete sealed ears

Them like me the ant beneath the tar

Are on different sides of the road yet seeking the same end

Wings to carry our voices to that place called independence avenue.

By Batsirai E Chigama  ( Zimbabwe )

Photo credits :  www.meetmeinzimbabwe.blogspot.com