Try not to get scared, scariest stories
I was just in my room, socking it. That’s when Larry and the creature, and they pickled my chilli dog, and that’s when Larry. I was driving in my Bergen truck, drunk, that’s when I saw a deer, I was later pulled over for DUI and killing a deer. Asgore. Once Diddy diddled my diddle he did. James?
Living in shadows of times gone by
Are they real or just imagination
They flit by unable to be caught
Just like watching a flickering film.
There one moment gone the next
I see visons of days in Africa
Hot dreams of things that once
were every day happing's.
Like going on safari
hearing lions roaring
deep and gruff so close
You felt that you could touch them.
Swimming in the ocean
so clear one could see the bottom
fish flashing by through seaweed
fat slugs and blue jelly fish.
Nights that were nearly bright
as day time just a bit spooky
Shadows all around you
things flashing by.
Four a clock in morning
walking my dog and a tribe
of neighbours dogs that
joined us they were a pack.
That I had very little control
over, enemies at all other times
but woe betide any thing they met
they went like a pack for them.
These are just some of memories
taken from the distant past
I treasure these thoughts
of days long gone by.
Dice the ice and break the chain,
Shatter the silence and unmask the pain.
Frozen systems guard the throne,
But truth is fire, it melts the ice that turn stone.
Dice the ice of greed and lies,
Cut through the veil that blinds our eyes.
The people’s voice, a storm untamed,
Shall melt the frost of those unnamed.
Dice the ice of fear and doubt,
Tear the old order inside out.
No tyrant’s rule can last for long,
When masses rise, their will is strong.
Dice the ice for to justice flow,
From frozen rivers as new seeds grow.
The dawn is near, the night shall cease,
A nation freed shall find her peace.
Age old tradition and civilization destroyed
Faith replaced with cult
Ruled with racial discrimination
Islamists killing women
Cradle of humanity ruined
Africa in shambles
A Draconian State Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Sara Jama
[Poet’s Note : this is a wry autobiographical memory written in traditional pirouette verse viz. 2 quintains, line 5 & 6 repeat, which is the toe turnaround. I wanted to write a narrative of a weird syncopated vignette, when I was knitting a pink mohair jersey at the time of my imprisonment. I reduced the narrative to a pirouette. When in prison, one of my interrogators was knitting the EXACT jersey in the exact colour & exact wool ! ie. in the final analysis, (in retrospect) everything in human life can be reduced to a pirouette, a turn-around dance ! ]
knitting a pink jersey
mohair with cables fine
to process flying thoughts
political activist
south africa turmoiled
south africa turmoiled
security police
came with casspirs and cuffs
interrogation chamber
police knit jersey pink
~~~~~~~~~
Surviving the waves of pain,
Loss of three children that she gained.
Flowing into a pit of despair.
Home burned.
Taken away.
Raped until her uterus faded one day.
Left starving on a lost shore.
No hope anymore.
Hair gone short except for a straggle or two.
Neatly braided with an old tin can.
Necklace found buried in the sand.
Ready to try for a new land.
Selling self for the money that's due.
Off on a boat with three hundred and two.
Everyone bailing until close to land.
Not surviving as water rushes in.
Sinking slowly.
Floating back.
To where she began.
The goal is to score a goal
Go for goal and earn three points
The world stage football festival seems cold
Thou art giant among Aficans
Set the pace and surmount Mount Rwandan
The rest will bow down
Freedom is documented,
When new page opens,
unwritten words await,
But It feels like wandering in the mist,
Walking in the tangles of sin,
Rules feel like destiny,
Yet we are caged,
The sky was never the limit,
Still not the limit,
But are we strong enough
To make our own choices?
To open a new page,
To write our own new peace?
Will our story be told?
If we roar, will we be heard
Or silenced, gunned down?
So, are we truly free?
Do we really have a choice?
Without fate, without faith,
Freedom is a dilemma.
Right or wrong
A choice must be made,
Even choosing nothing,
It still a choice,
In a flash,the Rubicon is crossed,
Are we really free?
Or still to be?.
The Upper Wealthy
It was said that famous families
only lasts for about three generations
The Churchills, the Kennedys, and many
Others have a sale by date.
I thought of that while watching a program by
Crise Hedges, who happens to have grown up
among the stratospheric wealthy, and he
spent time trying to distance himself from
that class of people
He can't, everything about his language
manner, the smoothness of those who have
not had to strive
Cris was interviewing a man who writes
books about the rich, who, according to
him are bad for our society and economy
Clearly, the rich are different from those who have
No private plane when going shopping
They send children to the top school in a limo
They have a big household staff to keep
them in clover, and security, to be rich also
Mean someone is out to do your harm
The two men began annoying me, telling
stories about the wealthy, sounding like
a couple trying not to sound envious
thy worldith isith thy canvasith.
thy painterith thy paintith.
thy poetith, makeith thy poetith.
thy worldith thy endith.
chickenith jockeyith.
my ostrich shell painted with
springbok and entangled daisies
blowing in icy wind
I drink yolk and albuminous
whisperings along rushing waves
we are soft dreams where
a fishing boat stood
buildings now deserted
¥
storehouse freshly painted in ochre
fishing nets drawn alleluia
dreams float with the sardines
drinking coke we celebrate catch
wind skips along Hout Bay shore
daisies clap wild petals yellow
shells smashed we eat boiled yolk
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hunger walks barefoot through the streets,
while ministers gorge on stolen meats.
Children suck silence instead of bread,
their futures pawned, their dreams half-dead.
The unemployed queue in endless chains,
their sweat dismissed, their labour drained.
Degrees rot in forgotten drawers,
while power laughs behind locked doors.
Corruption fattens on every deal,
their pockets swelling, ours to steal.
Contracts vanish, truth is sold,
justice buried beneath their gold.
They dine in palaces, sip red wine,
while bodies starve in broken lines.
The country bleeds, yet they parade,
in suits stitched tight from what we paid.
And still they preach of brighter days,
while tearing hope in clever ways.
We see their lies, we hear their song
but hungry voices will rise strong.
We shall rise to fight for our future,
and shadows sharpen into light.
The feast of the few will come undone—
the starving many will be one.
One country for all - equal rights!
Leaders will become servant while followers walk with prestige and honour flying my country flag.
Hide and Seek
Boju- Boju
Playing life's game
Suited with the right face
Hide and Seek
Bojo boju
A game of subtle pretense
doing it life's way
clothed the right way
A mask for every season
A man for all reasons
See the masquerade at play
We belong and carry
Historic love is buried
In black genes so strong
They ring like holy song
The curl of your hair
Onyx Pearl your eyes
Heavy hips bring stare
Licorice lips defy lies
We create from scraps
Food homes poems raps
Take nothing make something
All despite devilish traps
We fall yet we ruby rose
So all could experience hope
And amethyst amazing growth
We dreamt and made it so
You silver star are the pride
Of hearts love inherited tribe
The sun kisses your skin
Ancestors kiss given by wind
Destined and designed to rise
Be inspired be ready to fly
God gives you truth not lies
Walk your path live your life
farms await bony hands of want
land thirsty for full bodied Love
what strength is needed to grow the maize
whilst shadows roam streets in haze
leaves like notes blow across ferocious Falls
how long can darkness juggle its balls
¥
balls of the clown are tired of work
calm Falls continue their crystal splash cries
shadows between trees rustle like hungry
beggars
maize aromas ripe fill air for inhalation
yellow Earth bursts fiery gore
hands of farmworkers touch Lushness of Lore
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Specific Types of Africa Poems
Definition | What is Africa in Poetry?