When justice delays....

Caught in the toils of laws,
His soul is dangling on a string
Of a cruel leader
Who reaped him off
Like a blind bat.
Life with its unapparent fairness,
Enslaves his spirit,
And charge it for the sins it never commited.

Stricken by thoughts,
Where his power gave it all.
Unbearable pain, as he beholds,
And unrolls the scrolls of his hardships
Drowning in the deepest ocean
But still he rises like a morning sun,
He floats above the stitches
That possesses his happiness.

Justice where do you lie low
When like an infant
He cracks into cave echoes?
He is a word- worrier
He could have revolt against the government
But he became as humble as a dead sea.
His heart is stumbling through and through
It knows that you have delayed
To give par excellence of what rightfully belongs to him.

By Masekhoane Pekosela  ( Lesotho) 

picture source: digitaljournal.com

Deathbed Confessions ........

As I lie here paralyzed by this disease that's claiming my life.
Clasping on to the hand of the woman who for the last forty years I've called my wife.
Poker faced I look into her eyes
Tears well up as I think of all the lies.
Through each one we stood by each other
This is not the love I was told of by my mother.
Yet I met this woman when I was a boy
My childhood sweetheart who brought me such joy.
The love of my life who said I'm her one and only
Death would rob us of this bliss And leave her lonely...

When she was twenty-four I was twenty-five
That’s when we wed the bliss we shared made me know I was alive
When she was thirty-three I was thirty-four
Five children she had bore
Could any man ask for more?

Our lives revolved around our family
Our last child whose name is Emily
Has graduated from university
And now faces the prospect of life in the city
We gave them all the best money could buy
And taught them the all values and virtues to live by:
Honesty, integrity, transparency, truth and courage.

How can I look them each in the eye when I've been so dishonest
The double life I've lived as I built this love-nest
The smokescreens and facade that have filled our home
The lies and deceit are more than the plot to kill Caesar in Rome.
How can I tell them when I know this will destroy us
Maybe I should take it to my grave and not kick up a fuss

The six souls I love with all my heart
Are about to discover a truth that will tear us apart
I cannot believe I find myself in this predicament
My confession will leave such disenchantment
You see I've known all along
In this happy septet I'm the one who doesn't belong
I could have said
I should have said
I would have said
But I may have lost her if did
So I was forced to put it under a lid
How could I open Pandora’s box
And break the heart of one with such lovely locks
You see when it comes to reproduction I am like an ox
A debilitating disease in my youth left me unable produce an heir
This truth leaves a foul stench in the air
Who then is the father of these five?

By Mandlenkosi Nkomo  ( Zimbabwe )

#First published on http://poetrybulawayo.blogspot.com/2012/07/deathbed-confessions-by-mandla-nkomo.html?spref=fb

photo credits -www.aidsaction.net

The setting sun...

The sun set today
with the sorrows of the day
born of many a year
of repeated oppression
and acceptance that, maybe,
nature ordained it so
and that who are they
to question the mysteries of creation.

Today the sun set, 
as it hath done on days gone
sinking with the last hope
of the waiting wife
as her husband approaches
with a weary heart
drenched in sadness
nothing has ever changed
nothing ever will, so he thinks, 

his pockets long to be filled, not with his cracked hands,
that bear so many years of suffering;
a living testimony of exploitation
he searches in his mind
tormented by the look on his children's faces
because that look,
that wordless sentence,
has a way of breaking his heart.

Today the sun set
slowly, taking away the pain
to give way to the long night
where the seductive snakes lie
in wait of their weak prey
for if their pockets become partially filled
with dues from a month gone
they search.....
longing to quench their accumulated thirst
in loud music
and insipid wines
to lay in the bossoms of strange women
and lose all there is to them

so when the last rays kissed the earth
in their weakness, their strength grew
to devour them,
to rob them of their selves

Today the sun set
oblivious of the pain of the old man,
and his patient wife
and the look on the children's faces
incognizant of the life of the young man,
whose life is dedicated to death;
where he beds perfumed women
and is awarded a lifetime of sickness
the sun just set
to bring back fresh pains
as it starts another month

By Pardon Gwara ( Zimbabwe  )

photo credits- google.com

His words....

# This piece is a dedication to all  women who are in abusive marriages and those who have taken their lives because of abuse.

I sit on our matrimonial bed
Symbol of our marital bliss
Of romantic nights we have shared
I pick up the wedding photo on my bedside
Tears trickle down my cheeks uncontrolled like November rain
Oh Lord I can't bear the pain
As I Reminisce on that our happy day and the vows he said
The picture of our happiness is played in my mind again and again.
To love unconditionally he pledged,
Till death do us a part he declared.

I look at myself in the mirror
I look pale and wasted,emaciated by his emotional reign of terror.
Tears well up in my eyes
Am confused ,ask myself all the what and whys
What have I really done to deserve this on my life?
I'v been nothing but a loyal spouse his loving wife
But like poison he has made it his daily task to slowly and painfully end my life.

My blood shot eyes,disfurged face tell a tale of their own
Emotional scars left by this beast
Confidence lost from his barbed wire words that cut at the very deep parts of my heart
Bitter words that are corrosive and unpalatable to the ear
Words that tear the heart apart 
Deep words that leave permanent scars of pain like burnt cigarette marks on a ashtray
He doesn't love me anymore bt I'll stay
I just can't abandon him,we have spent many years together
he will change I hope, I'll pray.

Is this the man I married that wishes me dead and buried.
The very man who crucifies me daily for being barren.
His words a crown of thorns.
Is this my prince charming that has turned back into a beast without warning,
Is this th man once upon a time seranaded me with sweet nothings,
His words like honey were a delicacy to my ear
Who now mercilessly butchers me
His very presence I now fear
Lucifer personified takes every moment to tell me of those painful,cancerous words that are resurrected within me every time I think of them
Is this the man my youth my beauty my most coveted virginity I sacrificed to give
Who bashes me like a tsotsi who's been caught in the very act of stealing ,
All because you my Lord have denied me the fruits of my womb
God No! I refuse to believe

I sit up straight on our matrimonial bed
Symbol of our matrimonial bliss I have already said
Suicide note on our bed
I open my bottle of rat poison and I take a swig
I lie beautifully on our bed
This life will soon end,who cares,
am tired but for to long I have bled and noone has ever cared.
Goodbye my prince charming,remember the good times we have shared.
I black out.

By Chris Chakwana ( Zimbabwe )

picture source; www.huffingtonpost.com

Men Are Like Dresses .....

When I was five, I watched a seamstress make me a dress

Men are like dresses, on you put the best, she said

I’m measuring its size, using you to test

I watched her work on a fashion portrait for me

Of material she took her time choosing the best quality

She took her time making the best fit

She locked eyes on the strings and drew them to her bosom

She laid the silk and velvet swabs on her breasts

And as the material lay breathless on her chest

She evened out a crease, and sealed a seam

The material was an acolyte under her caress

Manipulated to any shape and feel she desired

With her divine skill it became what she aspired

A shift dress, an empire waist baby doll dress, or a little black dress

When I was five, I watched a seamstress make me a dress

Men are like dresses, on you put the best, she said

Some men are like an empire waist baby doll dress that flares at the bottom

Eager to hug the bust line, the wrong cut can suffocate the heart

Whichever way you allow the wind to blow it between your legs it’ll start

With a peek, then a touch, it’ll even dance before it flares away

Some men are like peplum shift dresses

They leave something to the imagination as they hide your flaws

You’ll soon outgrow them; don’t fret when they fall short and become too small

Everything ends, even dresses can’t help being finite

But some men are like Little Black Dresses

Full of class and simple sense, it’s loved by your mammas

Every girl should have at least one for its timelessness

It lets a woman exude beautiful power and loves her forever

When I was five, I watched a seamstress make me a dress

Men are like dresses, on you put the best, she said.

By Andiswa Onke Maqutu (South Africa)

pic source : www.google.com

When all hope is lost.....

 When you reach the end of the rope
When the road is bent and blocked
Your sight becomes blurred
Your back bound and burdened
The time you are sapped of strength
When earlier you stretched and screamed
Because stress and strain
Multiplied and mounted on you
Life turned upside down
As a forty day journey or jubilation
Exchanged for a forty year sentence
The serenity and succour intended
Surrendered to the uncertainty of the season
The present blighted and blurred.
Harassed and hemmed in by gloomy past
The future holds gloom and grief
In the midst of this hopelessness
The Sun shall arise shine forth
A second chance will be provided
Thus will life blossom and boom again.


By Passy Amaraegbu  ( Nigeria ) 


picture source romzzz.deviantart.com

Amnesia of the Soul

Troubled waters, murky seas

A fjord of memories
Sunburned grasses and hills
The pleasant hue of sunshine
Hidden by gathering clouds
The sun's shadowy glance
Proclaims the coming rains
I sit transfixed
My life speeding like a hurricane
Twists and turns
A howling vortex of memories
I want to forget
I need to forget
Regrets rush in a rage of fury
The hunter is now haunted
By the screams of his former prey.


 By Damilare Maverick ( Nigeria )

photo credits: lipstickalley.com