honking expletives
an irate driver
aggressively gestures
at my patient attitude
and the gaggle of geese
crossing in single file…
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
contemporary Persian ancient
blending intro-imagery with peach
vulnerability
identity a Khoisan outpouring on fields of Skukuza healings
whilst township dancers make their rites
to bite presence on platform sites
so will Gen Z’s make their
vibrant scratches on our rock walls
for Galactics to visit tall
courage was torn with rosemary bushes like
biltong shreds
¥
he pierced her teenage framework newly
smoothed with rosemary
galaxies watched in horror
scratched her legs with longing paws
Gen Z’s roared their rage across
the continent
she bit her presence into his poverty
townships waited in mourning
her virginity ripped
identity equals Acturian
vulnerability is paintbrush memories
seven shadowy children
are to arrive crystal
not through her uterus
Everyone can be a critic.
Few can take criticism.
I’ve seen the results of youthful play
The paths half-buried of sandy ethics
The holes and pitfalls of reliance
Mounds of dirt clods and chocolate chips
Success tastes so fine –
Like a drink of ice cold water
On the last lap of decision
‘Cause we are all infinite genius
We know what we know –
Because we intended to be ominous
We have all the answers –
For our same redundant questions
So don’t point your finger at me
Waiting for a solution
To your petty-proud, little-lot life
My knowledge will pierce your pupils
Blister your lips
Bruise your belly
Crush your pride
I am a steel-toed construction boot
You are an insect
Don’t play checkers on my chess board
It’s a risk taken with a master madman
With a proven method of interpreting your ideas
Full intentions of beating you
At your own game
In your own home
Give me a reason to frown upside down.
A quarter rest breathed into my consciousness, a playful pretense of a warm hand gently placed above my heart, calming my sedulous spirit.
—by the Poet
When Paris Was All The Rage
Slow sound of the sax; I lay back
and listen to good-old-day lyrics,
when Paris was all the rage,
and the time of love has past
for the old maid sipping wine
on a sidewalk café; staring,
are we, into the eyes of a painting
rainy and colorful; romanticized
by the simmering sound of the sax;
its notes buoyant on the Seine.
Raindrops of gray, blue and cherry
blossom; a scant smile on red lips,
reminiscing the fading beau and hours;
clicking heels and handsome dress.
Sedate and cocksure lyrics and vocables
regulate my heart, warm my pulse points.
A voice croons, as the ‘phonist’s fingers gyrate,
tingling all the senses; cabernet dimmer switch.
A burned up system of control
A revolt spoken with flames
Silence was no longer an option
Peace had been exhausted
The only language they communicate
Violence
The police man specialises in brutality when it comes to the black man
'Stop and search'
An excuse they use
To abuse
The 'blacks"
Used as a slur
By the oppressor
As if it's poison, as if it's something to beware
Of
The Brixton riots of 1981
An explosion ready to happen
All that was needed was a lighter to spark the fuse
13 bodies
13 humans
13 black men,
Lost to hate
Tensions rose like the smoke in the buildings
A quite smile left on the faces of those reeling
Their own kind of justice, it was oh so freeing
Retaliation they didn't expect
In their own words they believed they had 'controlled the blackies'
But we have a weapon
One that whispered through generations
Nothing loud
Just something strategic
Something quiet
A lingering secret
Black rage
A communal experience
Of built up fatigue
Of the uk's involvement
In the mistreatment Of black people
Your love flew wingless with the summer wind,
And left me stranded, hopeless, in a pit.
Alone I became too much for my mind,
With my love jailed by your self-written writ.
I was consumed by the flame of your rage,
Yet from the ashes, I arose anew.
I found a heart whose kindness could assuage,
And clean even a faintest thought of you.
Your cruelty bent me but couldn't break me,
I rode the distance on your stormy wave,
Till real love brave the storm to free me,
And polished my heart, making me feel brave.
Each fibre of my heart now flows with love,
At last, your wickedness has fallen through.
Joy walks with me, hand in hand, hand in glove,
Made whole by love thats's steadfast, strong and true.
Woman is a hole,
Soft with spongey walls,
Press the button, make her howl,
Crash through her virgin halls.
A newborn baby, little girl,
Fresh kitchen rag to store,
Waiting ignorant of the day,
When she too will be soiled.
Decades later, kitchen rags,
Sit discarded in a bin,
A loony bin for hags to talk,
And squeeze out salty drips.
Streaming semen pulling tears,
Out of ragged women,
In a circle all but holes,
Men uninvited saunter in.
The seething waters took them.
I rage,
rage against the deluge,
an unmoored,
unrestrained rage.
I rage for the innocents,
a rage that drowns all else
except more broiling,
more roiling waves of rage,
an anger that unstrings
the harps of angels.
Rage I now, at the blind horror
of godforsaken moments
that snatch all away
as suddenly as a surging,
untethered,
Texas tsunami.
I rage against
the ever-deceitful aspirations
of peace and calm,
rage utterly
against all heaven-sent calamities,
rage most,
upon
this violent earthbound dream
we have plunged into,
it is a raging river
that will sweep us all away,
even little girls,
all those struggling to still swim
above such raging torrents
only to slip through flailing hands
as hope sinks below
yet more tumultuous waters,
waters which
it has been written,
that Jesus himself
once walked upon.
Bars of rage by Adejola Joseph
Bars of rage
Angry
Very angry
What does anger bring?
City of destruction
Temple of anxiety
Anger is a boiling water
An H2SO4 acidic
Bars of rage
Anger.
rivers stay silent
happy to hum to themselves
until a rage spills
in torrents, cascades and falls
only quelled in spells of drought
They locked her in a box of gold,
with chains that shimmered, stories told.
"Stay pretty, still–don't ask for more,
The fire in you? Just folklore".
she smiled like myths were make–believe,
But hid a flame beneath her sleeve.
each breath she took was kindling slow,
A furnace marked in ash and glow.
The saw her feathers, red and bright,
But clipped her wings do dim her light.
"You burn too loud", they used to say,
"And blaze is not the woman way".
Yet silence cracks, and embers bite –
she burst the cage in blaze and flight.
Not tamed, not torn, not anyone’s—
she rose to kiss forbidden suns.
Now when they speak her name in fear,
It echoes loud and crystal clear:
You cannot cage what’s born to rise
A phoenix lives in ashes's guise
~hira~
She started crying in the middle of rages—
not the soft kind, but sharp,
like she’d cut herself on something
I couldn’t see.
She slammed drawers.
Shouted at a spoon.
Broke a plate and sobbed
as if the world had cracked with it.
Before she left,
my mother filled the kitchen with notes
written on paper towels—
taped to the cupboards,
the countertops, the fridge.
I couldn’t read,
but I knew they were important—
squares of paper whispering rules
for someone to follow.
And then she was gone.
We went to see her
in a hospital that smelled
like bleach and stillness.
She didn’t get up—
just sat in a wheelchair
with a white bandage
wrapped around her throat
like she’d tried to swallow something
that wouldn’t go down.
After that,
she came home quiet.
No more yelling.
No more crying jags.
She took down the notes,
made my lunch
and folded the laundry
like nothing had happened—
like maybe I dreamed it.
I didn’t ask why, and she didn’t say.
But I tried not to spill things.
I tried not to be loud.
Raw, unfiltered anger, it’s all that I know. Constantly
Aggravated by worthless pieces of scum that I struggle
Getting off of my shoes. A nasty glare, a hostile retort,
Everything and anything can, and will, fan the flame.
After the infliction, what happens then? A swelling, a vicious,
Nasty swelling in the throat. A horrible torrent of flames threatens to
Destroy all in its path. Words of pure venom threaten to spew out.
Harrowing to myself and others, I know this to be so. But, like a sore
Affliction or rash, it never truly dissipates. It only subsides, a dormant ember
That flickers in the inky darkness until some ignorant cretin ignites it again.
Red, red, red! Blinding, sizzling-hot red is all I see. Pure and unfiltered
Evil that only cares for spreading vile hatred and destruction. Suddenly, the
Devil is fatigued. It sinks into the abyss, dormant. But not for long.
‘tis not this scape judgy?
‘lo, prey on the defenseless
short of a chirp, quite rationalized
facets of your twisted facade
the soul degrading you?
despises, despises theeself
thy insecurities shall protrude
thy good and their wrong spotlighted
i won’t get ready for this world
it will get ready for me
let their hearts pound in their chest
cause I’m fighting for those who can’t fight
it’s going the hell down
FLY HIGH! No one but you has lived a second of your life
FLY HIGH! The useless always negatively lie
FLY HIGH! We’ll prove our existence to those who reject it
TO THE SKY! F I G H T !
It wasn’t the lightning
that split me--
it was the silence that came before.
That breathless hush
like the world holding its tongue
right before it screams.
I have learned
to count the seconds
between betrayal and the crack--
the flash of what you did,
and the roar of who I became.
Don’t tell me
to be soft in this storm.
I was soft
when I begged,
when I bled through apologies
you never meant to give.
Now, I burn.
I rise with the wind.
The sky echoes me
and I do not flinch
at the sound of myself anymore.
You ran
when the clouds broke.
I stood
and screamed back.
Because I don’t come
after the thunder.
I come along with it.
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