I wrote a poem

I wrote a poem
For the day when I cannot write no more
When the night silence falls
For the day the ink dries
When words like rivers vanish
And ears that listened
CANNOT BE SEEN

Nightmare

Don't sleep, its a trap
The night is pregnant with untold nightmares
They don't tell you
They hope you sleep through the dark
And wake up transformed a lasting beauty
But the night is wicked
It haunts, it kills
Both the body and the vision it carried
Don't be a fool and sleep
Or you wake up in a bed full of anguish
A nightmare that refuses to vanish with the dawn
Don't sleep; not in summer
Don't sleep; not in winter
Don't sleep; next to a dog
Don't sleep; with a princes
It is a trap and your night dries up

From what we heard

From what we heard
He was a great man
Full of a heart
That left many in awe

From what we heard
He was a loving man
Full of greatness
That with awe captured many

From what we heard
Nothing untoward could be said
Not even a sad
Could provoke an animal with

From what we heard
He was nothing but a spirit
A benevolent soul
And that's why we are here

I wonder what is said in silence
When no one is listening
Does silence sing him a praise
Or does it sing for his fur

I know why the dog died

I know why the dog died
Waiting at the table of a Queen

He waited patiently
Never seeing bones falling

I know why the dog died
Waiting at the table of a Queen

He waited for diamonds

For glitters of gold

I know why the dog died
Waiting at the table of a Queen

He waited for the fattest stake

Cuisine from worlds afar

I know why the dog died
Waiting at the table of a Queen

He never knew that

Only bones fell from the table

He died waiting

At the table of the queen

Thinking each day that goes by

Was a day closer to a better day 

When his stake would be served

But  I know why the dog died

Waiting at the table of a Queen

He thought like a King

Not seeing the King 

That sat opposite the Queen

The day the guitar stopped

Broken bones
Battered skin
Bruised faces
Economic injustice
But the guitar kept us going

Boiling Blood
Broken society
Buried Families
Endless suffering
But the guitar kept us together

Hey Days
Healing a broken dream
Heading to something worse
Emerson is here
But the guitar kept hope alive

But the guitar stopped
Strings tied around our hearts
Finally played the last note
And withered

Rest in Peace - Oliver Mutukudzi

Missed

I am sorry that you missed me
I have been to the world
And many days, it was you I thought i found
In the many eyes of strangers encountered

I was in the east
I walked out beaten and broken
I also made it to the west
I wrote poems laced in agony

I am sorry that
Perhaps each dusk you stood
And watched in despair for a returning shadow
That never became a reality

I am sorry that you looked for a friend
And the friend was nowhere to be found
You looked for comfort
In the dessert like arid friendship

I am sorry you missed me
I am sorry you missed me
I did not miss you
you did not miss me

The End

When it ends
Is it the end?
Does it have to be ugly?

When it ends
Is it over?
Does it have to be that way?

When it ends
Is there a bad guy?
Does it only hurt one side?

When it ends
Do you sleep at night?
Or do you ask why it ends?

The Phenomena

Where do we start?
Every second is full of questions
Even if we break it to pieces
Questions do not end
Like the endless Nile
They find ways into our hearts
Everyone everywhere is full of questions

Where do we go?
When moments full of questions
Breed more questions
And not their answers
Like a river
Do we cry endless tears
And choke as we gasp

Where do we end?
Are questions killers?
Do we sleep at night?
When all the questions have been asked
Like the melody of anguish
Can its beauty be tainted?
By the endless emotions provoked

Where do we go after the end?
We are not the first
We are not the only ones
Who carry these questions
Like life, Its an ugly end
Life is phenomena full of questions
Answered by some whose questions ring hallow

Your Migrant Child is Home

Your migrant child is home
The city has been kind
The neon lights that each night set lit
The zebra strips that criss cross the city
Also shone on him

He is  a man now
No longer a baby that longs for home
For a warm embrace of the village
He has grown a skin
That makes it hard to feel warmth

He is home
To see through the merry days
Though the merry days are long gone
And children play no more in the street
The streets are silent

Your migrant child is home
He is here
Though he has laboured through the toiling days
He is home
Empty handed

unknown

is a poem for a season?
or does it wither without a reason?

Does the pen crawl in vain?
When stuck deep in pain?

 (incomplete)