Never see me again

 If you never see me again

Know my wretched soul found a comforter

In the grim hand of the Ancient Reaper 

Overwhelmed by my beauty, you called me ugly 

I have found comfort, in a world where i look like nothing

 

I have no father, no mother to shield me 

I have no sister, no brother to protect me 

I have no friend to live for, they laughed at my aungish 

They marvelled at my agony

 

So if you never see me again, i am safe

 

#JusticeForLufuno - for Lufuno Mavhunga a victim of school peers bullying, societal neglect and isolation. Peace be upon Her

Matilda II

 She came, a bride from the cities far off
From places known only in name
But her journey was a bouquet of roses
Freshly cut out of time
Or so I thought 

Imagining a red catapiller like bus
Sprawling up and down villages
Pregnant with a budding rose
That would find roots
In the depth of my heart

 
A crawling bus came
Found me brimming with a smile
Almost an overshadow all over the bus stop
Standing as the knight in shining armor
It’s the last bus that came, the bus of promise 

First it was municipal workers in a rush
For hush with their littles ones at home
Swimming out of the bus like bees
Then came the rowdy school kids
Their shoe laces untied in these slippery streets

And last case the pensioners, old grumpy pensioners
Gasping their way out of the bus, out of life
As it roared lamenting its departure
They didn’t smile, they didn’t wrinkle

The bus stop palely stared at the roaring bus
Seemingly more solitary than my lone shadow
That was left with eyes sore in despair
For the rose that never blossomed

But remained seated gracefully in the bus
Starring at me like you would stare a thing
I waited for the morning She rushed for the dusk
And I walked back to my village
Empty handed

The poet (is dead)

Though your poems are not written 

And the gory ink dried before our own shaken eyes 

You lived in simile and melancholy

Metaphors of agony 

You seared your parting lines 

With graceful grandeur 

Like a revered poet 

Holding firm the flaming pen that wrote your life 

Murmurs still linger 

Of the unknown poem 

You left behind for us 

To decipher 

To find meaning 

Of the light that shone so bright 

For us, it blinded itself 

And walked itself to oblivion 

We still stare in awe 

Wondering if these lines continue 

For the poem was yet to be written 

Now the poet is dead 

His ink-less veins shattered 

Like a harrowing nightmare 

Blazed out of reality 

The poet is dead

Sandra (History)

Herstory

Mystory

Ourstory

She died

 

- adpted from Murena Mawela

Moment of Silence

 It is a moment of silence

Say no to thoughts running wild

Hold close your heart

Before its captured by rapturous fires

Angers and joys of sadness 

Its time for yoga 

Dont roll out a mat 

For its the soul that needs to 

stretch still on the mat of silence 

Find calm in the madness 

And stop 

the rioting blood, the angered hope 

There is tomorrow, another day 

Another hope in the rising sun 

But for now stretch out 

On the floor of anguish 

And agonize on nothing 

for today is history
tomorrow is an idea

yesterday is a mirage 

with all its ills 

dont let it live

Stretch it out on the mat of silence  

- for 1 December 2020

 

Vhuhwini

Vho makhulu vha gai?

Vho malume ashu vho vhonwa nga nnyi?

Khotsi ashu vhana ni?

Vho ela sa mutshundudi

He vhaya ahu athu vhonwa

Vho khuya vhuhwini, pfamo isini mikano

Sedzani mashubini Tshipange

Lavhelesani Ngulumbi

Ndi mudi de usina tshitanga?

 

Vhudzisani

Ni vhone arali litshe lo lala

 

 Makhulu vha kha divha tshiulu naa?

Tshine ra tamba ti tshi gonya

Khe ho tou duu?

Muludzi usa tsha lila?

Naa vhathu vha gai?

Vho farwa lwendo 

Vhuyiwa ndi vhuhwini

Aredi hanengei

Incomplete

 A word

A sentence 

A paragraph

Chapters and Sections

Hardly a book

So nothing can be read of my covers

Incomplete and seemingly never ending 

A string of expression, muddied 

In this muted pursuit for things that seek expression

For George Floyd

I didn't write a poem,
when they choked you
I didn't write a poem
When his knee was on your neck
I didn't write a poem
when you expired
I didn't write a poem
When they rose
I didn't write a poem
Throughout the eruptions
I didn't write a poem
When like a wild fire
You soul set the world alight
I didn't write a poem
For their knee was on my neck
I can't breath
Living on borrowed times
Handcuffed since time immemorial
Face down in internal surrender
hissing and gasping
For a better day tomorrow
In a Whiteman's world
 - For George Floyd

P.s whats a poem for a nigga gasping on his last breath 

Messiah

There was a time
The Lord ran for dear life
He found refuge
In the motherland
She has been abused
Raped and debased
But tell her kids the truth
When the Lord was captured by fear
Rejected by his kith and kings
And for him, his father sought safety
He came to us
Then what of our motherland?
If the Lord found refuge in her
She saved him
She is the Lord's Messiah

Masses

Masses are an alter
You bring them in I perish
I cannot stand to suffocate
I long for a place far off
In the hills and mountains
In the valleys
Far from this chaos
Of a madding crowd
Happy in their joys
Happy in the anguish
Set me afar from their happiness
I want the truth