Archives for October 2015

Rose petals

ROSE PEDALS

No one will ever be able to understand a love affair like mine, this love tramples over every kind, even though you will never understand this love, it was the only love that we grew accustomed to. But wait it was beautiful…you see broken homes and gunshot wounds in the reflection of every tear. Cries that sounded like sopranos along side playing a violin with missing strings and a tree branch, I can still hear the choir performed by all those who got left behind, feel the bass of those who ran through dead, hear the symphonies cause by the sounds of shattered memories.

Shhh…listen…
If you are really quiet you can still hear the treble clef of a tired woman who won’t stop walking while holding her only living child. It was the best orchestra ever heard, our home being beaten to the muses that sang in the wind.

This love gave crimson rose pedals that flowed from their flesh, bullets that would kiss our skin, while churches are being burned to the ground, call that starting a new flame.- its clear that we made Valentine’s day seem mediocre-
It was sad how it became a thing of you have to hide!
To ensure any of your rights!
Don’t waste your time saving souls or being kind!
You have to eventually pick a side!
When desperation kicks in there is no time!
Then you are paralysed to decide!
Who Lives stay or get left behind!
I guess I now understand why it was called a genocide!

People spread out surrounding home.

Rwanda…

We were boarding a country once called home, call us the human fences.
Sense of security was crippled by the broken limbs of society. We were praying for a land the world might have never known existed. Our oxygen became so stale we began to question our creator and his purpose.
Disappointment stitched our lips shut while and circumstance tied our knees to the ground.
Can’t you feel this love, people loved a land so much that they believed that they should be the only ones to claim it.
Yes a selfish kind of love. This was the aftermath of love. A love that nailed death to your chest.
Dear world we are are sorry, I apologize for wasting your time by obligating you to help us, we didn’t mean to be heard everyday. Invisibility out grew our bodies, and we could no longer fit in out own silence.

We lived in mother Africa’s womb and she decided to have an abortion to get rid of a country that is small enough to fit in the palm of your hand.
We have tears strapped to our shoulders, bruises on our knees and blood from battered feet.
God lost the ultimate tug of war to Satan.
Torn by war.
Worn by being torn.
War torn.
They loved us in all the wrong ways.

Flow Masengesho.

Achtung, Achtung – alle Migranten !

(Opening scene of stream of dejected, burdened stragglers of all ages

on a road somewhere in eastern Europe)

A pestilence in Budapest,

bleeding out of the shrapnel wound

that is The Levant, gaping migrants,

outcasts of the Peak Oil Feast,

congealing scabs, starving for healing

in Hungary.

 

(Camera pans out and away – into the studio

where a slick Steve addresses his unseen audience)

“These are the contestants of Survivor Syria,

our latest reality TV show of the highest ratings.

And now for tonight’s episode we cross live to

Walther Cruikshank: …”

 

(Switch to reporter / presenter at railstation)

“Ah … thanks Steve, yes folks tonight we’re in

for a real ball-buster …”

 

(The railstation’s megaphone blares out – in jackboot stocatto,

drowning out Walther’s puny voice)

‘Achtung, Achtung – alle Migranten !”

Your free ride has been cancelled.

Once your name is drawn,

you will leave the embarking area immediately.

The tribe has spoken.

Return peacefully to your place of origin.

This announcement will not be repeated

and no correspondence will be entered into.”

 

(Camera leaves station, switches to recorded clips from the previous week’s action)

From the beaches of Tripoli they swam,

their bodies washing up on the shores of Sicily,

like late ancient Cathaginians answering the call

of a forgotten and defeated Hannibal.

From Damascus they walked to Istanbul,

and like The Apostle, were struck down

by the Light of God,

yet blind they wandered on.

In Vienna they suffocated in the waltzing heat

of a too well insulated fridge –

the road-sign might just have read –

‘Auschwitz – Achtung alle Migranten !’

 

(Camera picks out a buckled over hag with a snotty child strapped to her back)

Old strong grandmothers on one last road,

backs bent burdened by young sick babies

nursing at breasts wrinkled like the Roads of Life

sleeping in cold forests on dangerous nights,

only a baton-charge from the borderguards.

 

(Walther’s high-pitched voice inserts itself into the scene with the following words)

“Are you ready for tomorrow’s challenge ?

Wanna see what you’re playing for ?

– your life.”

“Steve, it’s back to you …”

 

(Steve now relaxes on a leather, brass-studded

seat reading out aloud from a newspaper)

“They are gone with a wind called Diaspora,

blown wherever she would blow,

and like seeds scattered on the stoney ground,

they are abandoned to the heat

in Syriza, and in Syria.

Stay tuned for surprising, uprising scenes

from our next episode.

Good night and God bless.”

IS THERE LIFE AFTER DEATH

thats the question is everyones lips. others agree that it seems like they are more concerned with the idea of dying than accepting that indeed the’ll die. if someone dies he/she will be born in a different country or continent and that particular person wont recall that he/she once lived. somehow this is true, there is a time in which you might bump at someone who looks exactly like someone you know from somewhere. you may consider this a coincidence, but i guess that’s how god wanted you to think when a person diesw, another one is biorn to rep,lac e the one who has departed.this whole thing is like a spiral, that’s we wont figure out if there’s life after death.the only thing that divides us is religion. for example; indians ; when a baby is born they cry and mourn for the fact that the baby has come into the world of problems. on the other hand when someone of their race passes away, they celebrate gesticulating, this shows that the departed person has been subdued from all the troubles and sufferings of this life

DREAM STORY

Have I forgotten the mirrored face I saw before?
Face that a lady once said to me awe
The birth had to be the hardest my thoughts tell
This turmoil and storms
This lighting and that wind, has all been this cycle in this life? Earthed
We never did what was needed to be done
It must have been a myth
Dreams scattered all round
Scattered all round dreams
All round scattered dreams
Round all scattered dreams
What madness he looked beyond the dream
The spirit of ancient wisdom was at once cast aside
Put down from the table were the light of the candle kept shinning
Away from the lamp that was over flowing with oil
Hidden under the carpet only to be trampled upon
Put deep in dungeons of dark places
Chained not to be set free, forced to conditions of inhuman
Tortured beyond hate, spitted on them faces, insulted by words of fury
Some succumbed to the pain and golden is where they lay, as said this is an ancient story
Today as seen some still have those scars and yet they shine so bright
Then look at their tortures, empty, miserable, sad, angry, and pitiful, colourless, dull, grey, sparkles
As said this is an ancient story.
The sad part in this tale, they thought they could kill the dream, yet they forgot they had their own dreams and yet those who believed in their dreams and held unto them through bad and good are still dreaming, notice the difference, their eyes are wide open, dreams

FLANEGAN THABO NTSHOTSHO

FOREVER

The pleasant things you would have said, that really mattered….. Was not the………
Now that you see, what really love really meant….. How it really made you free
The fool you see…… is this……the same that made you smile
The one t who sometimes made you cry
Prepared to let you go………………for your sake
Happy those moments you’ll recall………just in a glance you will realise
Remember, deep in the sea…………in a storm……………….in a small wooden boat….the sea was rough, but me and you were so tough..
That the mighty waves were so surprised by us………that they open up and calm down to make way for us
Lighting showed us our way
That moment is when we knew we were partners and best friends
There was no fear, only fun …
Fun

FLANEGAN THABO NTSHOTSHO

“Creation reveals Your Glory”

“Creation reveals Your Glory ”
an inspired writer wrote
this rings true this morning
as clouds like waterfalls ,
flow down the mountains
the sun shining pale through
the vapour of the ‘falls’
lillies herald the morning
as coy daisies await
bright light to join in praise
,tis a beautifull morning
like every other
since the dawn of creation
when “creation began revealing
Your Glory “

Undeserved Praise

Some call it fate, others call it my lucky day;

Even if I’m unsure from wence my blessing came;

I don’t care what others have to say;

As for me all I can say is it’s my Jesus anyways;

 

Some say I’ve lost the plot, others say I’m crazy of late;

But I know a little secret so I just smile and wave;

I’d give all I have away;

But I’ll never trade my Jesus come what may;

 

See I don’t know much and I’m the first to say;

But this one thing I know moves mountains out of the way;

When I give my Jesus that undeserved praise;

When I give Him praise on credit, when I’m not even sure if He sent the blessings of today;

 

When you’re in credit with Jesus, He hates debt, so He’ll make sure He clears His name;

Let me go a bit deeper and explain;

I need not beg whenever I pray;

All I need do is give Him undeserved praise;

 

Praise for things He never told me He has done or blessings He’s sent my way;

See I praise Him not out of need, but because He is the love of my life, He stole my heart away;

Nobody had to force me, He chose to patiently wait;

I fell in love with Jesus because He was faithful no matter how many times I’d fail;

 

Undeserved praise, Jesus I love to be in credit with Your name;

When I start singing from my heart and tears flood my face;

As I feel Your heart break when my words penerate the spiritual realm and knock on Heaven’s gates;

As the arc angels open those pearly gates and escort my praise;

 

And it lands at the foot of Your throne, putting a huge smile on Your precious praise;

You see what most fail to understand is You already have it all, the one thing You don’t is our praise;

So that one thing I will give You all the time until my final day;

Jesus I’ll always give You more than just any kind of praise, I’ll give You that undeserved praise.

I…

I dream
I dream I will awake from this lazy slumber
This dormant volcanic depository of ideas
Spewing ash and sulphur and threating to erupt
Yet in the end it is just a rumble that refuels my fears

I scream
I scream for I yearn to extract this gold mine of words
Excavate and refine them into riches and accessories
Share them wear them with pride of kings and queens
But I remain poor as they disappear like distant memories

I might
Yes I might just explode like a ticking time bomb time elapsed
Disintegrate into million pieces of creative liberty
Destroy the chains abound this mind of mine
Lo I am still just ticking, ticking endlessly

I write
I write my soul to let loose
Ideas to release out of solitary confinement
To roam free like birds of a feather together
Alas I remain a prisoner of my creative consignment

I cry
I cry for I am trapped in a bottomless pit
A hole filled with tears of concepts conceived and aborted
Once a river of joy and creative bliss
Now overflowing with foetuses unborn ideas unreported

I sigh
I sigh a relief of dejection and despair
A realisation of a crossroad between triumph and defeat
That thin line between fantasy and reality
Then to the latter I quietly retreat

Then I hear
I hear a voice speak softly to me
Then I fear
I fear for it is the voice of my soul begging to be set free
Set free to write
Set free to spread my creative wings and take flight

Wisdom toothache

this is your workstation,
prison, cubicle. This is where you die.
your soul keeps the steel spinning
crimson keeps on spilling
creatures keep on feeding

keep on living on pills, waiting at tills
to feed your insatiable habits
like a, halibut, habitually hopping on to the next fad
The black on your nail’s cuticle
just postponing your nation’s funeral.

I’m Herod.
Just kidding, it’s Harold
Relax, it’s only your first day

A PLACE

In my heart most vulnerable
Where in my mind do I realise
So true to be myself
In this sorrowful, scornful and eventful path
Where many men trade love for hate, truth for lies
Happiness for anger and one another for nothing
In land not ours, treasures not ours and life not ours
Do I see proud faces, when death comes treasures remain, where our pride looks will pride no more
Where what you said was yours will be measured
Where not even the greatest liar flatters with words nor say anything boastful and deceitful
Where we will be rewarded for his ways

FLANEGAN THABO NTSHOTSHO