The Muted Pursuit

Sometimes you sit and ponder
Wonder if the mute pursuit ever ends
Is there a home for a disposed soul?
You wonder if the weary day ever ends
If the dark night ever give way
To diamonds and pearls
To rays of sunshine
That rises from afar
To a place beyond
A pursuit is not a walk
Its not a fun run
It is a weary toiling
It is a thirst that rises at dawn
And never find sleep at night
Sometimes you walk
Sometimes you run
There is no fun
Unless a pursuit is to happiness
That can last longer than lingering moments
Of bliss here and there and no more
When you have walked
Do you walk some more
Or do you find a tree
Embrace the tiresomeness
It is ok after-all
To be tired

Broken (What breaks a man?)

What breaks a man?

Is it the sun that doesn't rise?

Or is it a winter, that comes too early?

When a man who walked tall

Now wobbles aimlessly 

Is it the road?

Is it the journey?

That breaks him

What brings a man to his weakest?

is it a heart break?

or a heart that never got broken?

Confusion runs deep 

When i see him who was strong

With a heart build of bricks 

Slowly crumble to pieces 

What happened?

What breaks him?

What breaks his heart?

What breaks his soul?

Did he love and not find love?

Or did he hate and found love?

Why such misery on him?

What breaks a man?

Will he break again?

Or is he finished?

Pieces II

There is a poem called Pieces
It's an echo of a shattering heart
Written in the mind
Of the heart that is no longer
Of a soul that is no longer Godly
Pieces are falling
Wrapt in sweet red rosey affection
A glue that couldn't hold it together

Do you love and leave?
And hope nothing shatters?

What if it's a heart full of gold?
And not just the locks

Do you let gold shatter?
And watch as pieces fly

There is a poem called Pieces
It tells of gold pieces
It echoes of gushing blood
A golden heart torn apart

As they say, love was the motive

Nomzamo

Don't take her home too quickly
She never left us
Don't rush her home
She is at home with the people
Soweto is her home
Sweet showers from heaven
Not a curse but a blessing
Her race is complete
Dont rush her
Let her stay a bit with us
Another minute
Another second
She is our mother
(On the day of the funeral of Winfred Nomzamo Madikizela-Mandela)

This thing of ours

It's beautiful
It's taboo

Say no more of Robert Sobukwe

Say no more of Robert Sobukwe, He is alive

He refused to rest in peace

Until Africa belonged to Africans

Until every child of this soil 

Was the rightful owner of every inch

He is alive

His voice still hidden

But his ideas slowly finding roots

In the brains of every child of this soil

That yearns for what yesteryears robbed him

A Land to call his own

A Land given to him

Sobukwe is alive

In the Students who are hungry to learn

To be of service to Africa

Sobukwe lives 

In endless cries for Land

Sobukwe Lives 

In the endless yearning for Azania 

Say no more of Robert Sobukwe 

He is not a distant memory

He is in every breath 

That seeks to liberate Azania

Live Sobukwe Live

Rise Sobukwe Rise

Shine your light on Africa

Morocco to Madagascar 

Africa for Africans

Africans for Humanity 

Humanity for God

Sobukwe Lives, He is alive

Right (Rose)

A wrong so right

It's like thorns on a rose

Pricks delightfully

Amidst aromas of beauty untold

This lines cannot tell

Of an honest wrong

That is everything but wrong

it's a right

It cannot be stopped

Its beauty is eternal 

It lurks through the ugly 

To shine like a star at dawn

A right so wrong 

Wild like a rose 

Bome pome

Asi bome pome
ndi bome pome
Ndi lunzienzie ali lali
Ndi khangala khanyise
Ndi lumbile mbile ya Nevondo
Ine u viiwa ya beba mbilanana

Vhanwe vhe ndi Magupta
Vhanwe vhe musetsho u Nkandla
Hupfi asi zwone ndi Duduzane
Vhanwe vhe ndi Gigavha

Ho sala bome pome
Na vho Ramaphosa avha zwikoni
Wotsa na bada, muthelo wo ya
Wo swiswinwa ro sedza

Ho sala bome pome
Vhanwe vhe ndi ANC
Minwe i sumba i songo sumba
Ha sumba na ya vhaloi

Khea mabunyu
Asi hevhe hevhe ndi hevhe hevhe
Vhaamba vha sa fhedzi
Ho nwalwa na zwirendo
Hu imbwa na dzinyimbo
Hone vhungoho he ndi bva vhubvo
Ndi bome pome

Not a poem

Don't write a poem
for a hungry child
Don't sing a song
For a landless people

Their agony is not in verses
Their pain is not in rhymes

Don't write that poem
from a table set for steaks
A hungry child will not eat your echos

Don't sing that song
from a mansion of opulence
Landless people won't be sheltered by your high notes

Don't write a poem
Don't sing a song

Beware the wings

Beware the wings
Broken, life is an unbearable chalice
Don't marvel
when you see wings broken
They break a soul
They break tomorrow
Into fractures of hopelessness 
Beware the wings
Broken, reduced a King Eagle into a squeaking birdy
And a blissful flight becomes a drag
that drips with sorrow and tears
Some fly away
Some wither with the night