Monday, 9 July 2012

They Came, They Saw, They Died..


 
When the tide was high
Boys came to watch the sand
That poured about the deck line;
Emotions swirl round the canon brass.
Sands could imprint our flowing Strides
And bear traces to our historic pride,
But tide erases our history,
Making us Legends that live via the Mystery.
To a story of poor taste
To them that made the poor vase
That history sips out,
Like wine from a drunkard's mouth.

By:  Erelayefa Sylvanus Adikah (Nigeria)

photo credits fredhoogervorst.com

Friday, 6 July 2012

A wonderful day

I had to go see the doctor today.
 Standing on a library ladder,
 The corner of a book
Caught my head.
 …A sore lump
 Relates the rest
Of that story.

Emerging
 Into the mid-ninety degree day,
 A sprint to
 A mid-day appointment
Left me in chance-medley.
 I arrived behindhand,
Smelly and unkempt.
 Who wants to hire
A disorganised character?

Having lost my job
 Before I even started,
 I headed home
 Head hung,
Completely ill-humored.
 The plumber came running
 Out my front door
 Drenched in precious water,
Confessing his fault.

A problem
 He aimed to fix
 He worsened.
 Now my house
 He quite flooded.
 I am a strong,
Tenacious citizen.
 I don’t complain
 I find a solution.

So I pick up the phone
 In search of my brother
 The excellent plumber
 I disagreed with
Just last week.
 “Your brother is out,”
 Or so his wife claims.
 He got a promotion;
 They are moving to LA.
 Why don’t I
 Know about this?
 “Because you two haven’t been
 On speaking terms,
Of course!”
 Suzanne quips.

She sounds
Inappropriately triumphant.
 -She never liked
Me much.
 Time to throw in
The wretched towel.
 Let’s call it
 A write-off,
 An evil 24 hours
 I say.

But incontinently
 You show up
 Donning a warm
Summer’s day smile.
 One thing
 Have I noticed.
 All that is disagreeable
 Flees whenever
 You turn the corner.
 All that is unexceptional
 Dulls when you
 Take your seat,
Next to mine.

We haven’t talked
In a pretty long while.
 “Busy, busy, busy,”
My standard excuse.
 But now
 Here you are.
 And suddenly,
 This past 24 hours
 Has been the
 Best day of my life…

By Tebogo Ndlovu  ( Zimbabwe )


 *First posted: http://tebogondlovu.wordpress.com/2012/06/27/defining-wonderful/


picture source amckiereads.tumblr.com

I WHISPERED TO HIS HEART....

picture source www.123.com
I fell in love,
in love with the perfect man,
with my heart experiencing all this bliss,
I just want to shout it out loud so the whole world can hear,
but instead,
I chose to whisper those three words into his left ear,
coz that's the best way his heart will hear......
By Sarah Suwilanji Sichilongo  ( Zambia )

Is it the distance?.....



There was a time that I really missed you
that time no longer exists
when you came
nothing was ever the same
we are like lonely strangers
bound by an ancient pact
wishing if life could be different
so that whatever we did
could be washed away
by the winds of time...
I wish to hold on
to hang in there
so that
when all is said and done
truth will out
but time is a timeless treasure.

So when we meet
do not waste your words
keep them
and wait, maybe,
and only maybe
can the future have a place for them.

Is it the distance
or there is greater things
enstrangement
alienation
and everything in between
so where does this love stand
where does this take us
where will it end?

So those times i missed you
I do not wish to remember.


By Pardon Gwara   ( Zimbabwe )




picture source  http://letstalkafrican.blogspot.com/

Monday, 2 July 2012

Desiderata Terracotta

Colour me black;
that the shade you cast on me clearly be seen

Paint me a dark coat;
for this charade of a love-wall has long not been

Shackle your memory;
to the mad hut of muddy muck we care not see

Raze it, down lanes of indistinction;
leaving nothingness when all else flee

Sever our sanguine femoral [2];
undertake this ship beyond far flung sea

Shovel up the sands of time;
such reckless buckets of hollow glee

Leaving me out in the rain;
a precipitation wrought with tears

You gave my sense such pain;
vivid paranoia brought on by fears

Vexed every bit of creative text;
livid bay, my art transformed to constant jeers

Checked to break my heart next;
exhibit (a), made my head jump to contusions

Lust for thought that, dearest ex;
for all I want is but simple conclusions

All I need is but to be free;
free of your knee perched in my fork.





By Fred W   Maina   (Kenya )




picture source  www.20somethingsurvivor.wordpress.com

Conflict of the mind...

I am idle,demotivated,stuck in a world of opportunities.
I'm moving to and fro in an endless journey backwards.
I am  idle,lost in a shell filled with veins
and covered in the soil I have been moulded from.
I am a never ending story with no chapters or words.
I have a heavy burden
tattooed in my DNA, to live better than the latter.
I am a slave to thought,to ambition,to money and endless power.
The mind is a war field,
ridden with injured pieces of thought.
At night when I lay in my bed
I become a warrior,
I bathe in the blood of my enemies: time and
thought.
I am destructive,the very reason why I am idle,
stuck in a dungeon with destiny and time.
One tear could save me from falling off from the mountain.
Yes,I need to fall so that I can rise again and mend
what has never been broken.


By   Wandiswa Ntengento   ( South Africa )

photo credits:  www.ananaddoush.net


A god called Death....


Time is flying
It had flown and was going to fly again
It was constant
My plight was to
Risk and danger lurked at the corner
They say it’s the 21st century
I say time has nothing to do with better
Neither does modernity, its accomplice
Death was still death
Life was still life
A thousand years ago, A man fell from a tree and died
Hundred years ago, a woman died in child-labor
Six years ago, a child was inflicted with typhoid and died
Tomorrow, there might be an earthquake
More than thousands would die
In a few years, a man would die from lung cancer
It was just how life was
In its movements, danger came
In its movements, uncertainty for the morrow
I might die this hour
Who knows?
Death does,
Its one of his tricks
He constantly lived with life,
Ironically as it was,
Looking for preys
Prancing without mercy
Making men crippled
Making himself a god
In disguise of disease, illnesses, war, accident and coincidence
It might be called ill-luck but it was still death
None has conquered him
But one will
Someday in the distant future
A time that seems non existent
Though ever still existent
Then death would no longer be a god.

By Adedeji Esther Opeoluwa ( Nigeria )
artwork credits:     www.chidi.com