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david mungoshi Nov 2016
those were the days
i felt for mother
again in another daze
and he wouldn’t bother

those were the days
father went no further
Days of his  thick haze
though tough as leather
Those were the days

i remember you mother
you taught me to smile
and go the extra mile
for the sake of joy in love
and life was what it was
those were the days

i remember you father
in a lazy armchair
in shorts and glasses
sometimes in a lather
yet the epic story man
those were the days
david mungoshi Nov 2016
at the break of day we saw a frog
sailing the current into thick fog
at the break of day there was peace
and for certain we had a new lease
of life oozing out of the open petals

in the soft radiance of the  evening
after we had been drinking a sunset
life did a maestro's dance before me
and i knew then that it was my fate
to seek mystic things in perpetuity

in the dead of the live long night
i knew things lay there out of sight
making us tremble in anticipation
of sweet joys or bitter annihilation
on this journey that's a gift divine
david mungoshi Nov 2016
oh this cold winter sun
how it kills the day's fun
this cold winter sun
makes them dream of a tan
and crave for a ton
of warm Savannah gladness
the antidote to waning fondness
in the hearts of the jet-setting few
members of  a sad rich crew
with spoilt-brat dreams
Before venturing outside on my morning walk in Bromsgrove UK yesterday  November 1, 2016, I neglected dressing warmly because with the sky clear, more or less, and the sun shining, I thought I would be alright only to discover just how cold it actually was! I could only respond as I did through this poem. The weather back home in Africa is less deceptive. Just beginning to experience winter in the northern hemisphere and beginning to appreciate the weather of my homeland.
david mungoshi Nov 2016
how they indict me betimes
the things i've done
how they exalt me on occasion
the things i've done
david mungoshi Nov 2016
call me blessed when indeed nothing really clicks
call me blessed when the lucky ones excel; and
i wallow in the sallowness of shrunken prospects
call me blessed when glory is posthumous death
david mungoshi Nov 2016
the bruised ***** under the sighing branch
how he wept the bitter tears of one brutalized
by life's never-ending fixation with fleeting moments
how the futility of it all hit him where it hurt most
was the story of his life and that of many others like him
the trapped ***** under the maze of a broken branch
convulsed under the unspoken knowledge in his amnesia
david mungoshi Nov 2016
in truth i am stunned
by just how rich i am
even when i'm shunned
by the mighty of the world
with their gloss and their trappings
these newly-arrived fakes
imprisoned in artificial finery
while i'm free to wander
as i will, in the endlessness of wonder:
they give humanity a bad name
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