Portal for Writers and Poets in South Africa
Dearest, do you make flowers bloom in the days
And meet angels in the nights?
I heard beauty lives upon your face,
But not beauty of sufficient end…
Beauty of natural depth
They say, your mind too kind to exist with hate
Your eyes too bright to see the dark
But beloved, will you gaze upon your heart and find me there?
Will you gaze upon your mind and dream me there?
Upon these eyes, gaze awhile, dream awhile
For longer than awhile… my eyes will die
The black man, dark and shinning,
shining so bright like a piece of
china ware.
The black man, dark in the body but plain in
the mind, yes! It is not black magic, but a
personal choice to be plain hearted, like
saint Peter and other saints.
For a black man can also be dark hearted
if he chooses.
Colour is not a barrier, because if you call
me a black monkey and I call you a white
pig, we will both be dark hearted. I the relation
of the slaves taken across the Atlantic , is now a
black president, it is not colour, so if you are a kunta kinte,
don’t call your brother a white maggot .
A real Kunta Kinte has forgotten the slavery encounter
,he has forgiven too, it is a world for humanity as one
,yes it is.Am proud to be a Kunta Kinte.
you CRITICIZE ME FOR I SPEAK NOT MY MOTHER TONGUE
you are the cause.
you ABHOR ME FOR I AM DIFFERENT TO YOU
you are not comfortable in your own skin.
you DO NOT SPEAK MY LANGUAGE
it is difficult for you to learn.
you HAVE MULTIPLE HOUSES ALL OVER THE WORLD BUT
you do not have a home
you TRAVEL ALL OVER THE WORLD YET
you have never been to you.
you BENEFITED FROM YOUR RIGHTS AND EVEN OTHER PEOPLE’S RIGHTS
you are still weak.
you SAY YOU LOVE YOUR FAMILY
you do not know what love is.
you HAVE A WIFE AND CHILDREN YET
you still frequent brothels and strip clubs.
you DEMAND RESPECT YET
you do not respect yourself.
you REFUSE TO LISTEN BUT
you want to be heard.
you SPEAK ABOUT THE LIGHT YET
your heart is as dark as the place you come from.
REDEEM YOURSELF FELLOW BEING TAKE A JOURNEY TO SELF.
All you have been is a waste.
You never once stood up for me.
Your existence was my failure,undoing, and punishment.
Just a damn tool for others plans of destruction or pleasure
A masterful escape route for uncontainable anger
Yet now again you will not stand for me?!
No I say to supple forms n mountain bossoms!
To softness shaded purple and blue
To guilt to shame to disgust
What are you? Failure!
I wish to return you, I wish you were not me.
Filth.
Wathintha abafazi, Wathintha imbokodo? Ha.
Every curve yelling out weakness.
Take it back! Take it all back!
Trade in bountiful backsides n tender lips, for broad backs n big hands.
I cannot be your victim.
White paper burns, as hot as a flame
Just printing with censors, not the governments shame
The red in our flag, is it the colour of blood?
Of our human rights, flowing away like a flood?
Don’t hide away, let us see the corruption
The country must not go deeper, no economic suction
But as a united country, we must not yield
We must play the best with the cards we are dealed
So let’s turn our pages into pages of truth
With plain hard facts, understood without being a sleuth
Eliminate the cowardly cloud of secrecy that’s hovering,
We must protest and demand to see what they’re covering
We must know about bribery, corruption and dealings
Doesn’t it take away our expression and feelings?
This bill can prosecute a journalist or a whistleblower
For telling their secrets, could we sink any lower?
In these dark times, where is the light
Oblivious to what’s going on, how can we fight?
Oupa has rigid skin.
His softness, long since disappeared.
His shadow reeks of balms,
lotions, oil, scented soaps, cod-liver.
Shapes become tinged and bitter…
Tiny notions,
multiplied to become devouring oceans,
of salt-water tears and fresh-water fears.
He called up to heaven,
he settled into a peculiar divide.
Bitter beings choking on beautiful pride…
Broken knowledge passed into the children’s brains,
all while pointing his crooked finger towards the way.
He manufactured them,
then left them in his wake.
So they grew up and repeated every mistake…
Pride was so easy to swallow,
easier than the essence of life.
His old tongue turned black;
His black heart turned back;
His chest cavity resisted every attack.
His gift…
Oupa sits on the barren stoep.
He is alone now.
The children never forgave,
they never visited the grave.
He remembers it all,
in his own peculiar way.
The passage of time diluted by miscarriages,
Miscommunication,
Misdirection,
Misbegotten…
He controlled all of them,
his whole life long.
But now,
surrounded by this strange place,
he sits where nothing is possible anymore.
Remote…
Empty tears that fall from empty eyes
Silenced lips that speak no life
Darkened heart crushed by man’s defeat
Search for truth and vow
Clear as shadow water
Your hope, the silver string of time
Your spirit, the phoenix of decline
It didn’t matter that he’d given her a black eye the night before,
he was still there,
It mattered little that he spit in her face,
abused her name and left stripes on her back from his army belt,
never letting her out of his sight
At least he stayed,
No other man had stayed after seeing her disfigured face,
caused by fire that killed her mother and made her father go away,
That put her in Foster homes for naughty children,
Who don’t listen to their mother’s and play with matches
I searched and wandered the morning, I found mist and dew, I found cold shadows, I found damp.
I found cold grey hillsides sheathed in a spongy blanket of moss, I found trees and ferns that dripped tears of water collected throughout the nights dreary hours, I found heavy hung clouds that were in a rush to retreat to the hills.
I found shattered shards from tipped and toppled glasses that only a few hours ago contained happiness, wit and long forgotten stories that had matured into exuberant and loaded with lavish yet like-able tales.
I found damp embers of wood that earlier warmed us and nourished our souls, the flames that licked the skies now long gone. I found a dance-floor sized spread of flattened grass and soggy soil that had once moved with us to a musical tune.
I found early morning birds with ruffled feathers scavenging lawns in search of a easy breakfast, shrugging off the cold as they went about their chores that were driven by evolved instincts.
I found dustbins that had been bastardly savaged and its contents examined and strewn across pathways, the edible delectables stolen to the hills, care of a troop of manic monkeys.
I found that the morning was groggy, along with my head. I found myself tracing my steps back to the warmth and security of my blankets. I found myself sniffing at the sodden air, somehow expecting the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, some salvation.
I found the sun breaking over the crest of the highest peak. I found others strolling around the gardens, holding their heads low, perhaps searching for what I was just looking for.
This morning I found life in the mundane, I found life in my surroundings, I found life.
The road less traveled is full of gravel and stones
The road less traveled has no sense of direction towards home
It only knows forward
It only knows what lies in front of your feet
Filled with defeat
The road less traveled is for the brave
For those hungry to make a name for themselves
Those that don’t tire
The road less traveled is no place to retire
It’s a place to build
A place for those willing to sacrifice for a chance to live
A chance to breathe
Pull up your sleeves and fight
We don’t rest
Not even in the night
The road less traveled is not for the weak, meek
Keep track of time because you lose everyday
You must know what you came here to say
What you came here to do
The road less traveled is not for those who came to play
But for those who came to do
Put on the right shoe
So that when it’s time
You’re ready for kicking and screaming
Fight for your life
The road less traveled is not for those with rights, but those who earn
The road less traveled is for he who knows it’s his turn!
