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NOLWAZI JOUBERT Jun 2015
So many of us sit, think and still
wonder,
But have we ever gave ourselves the chance to ask?
Well no!
We just rejoice and find oursleves
floating on cloud nine because
"it is just another public holiday"

So many of us have cherished this day,
as a day of drinking, parting
and being in the family way.
Which "Us" am i refering to?
Well it is the youth of South Africa,
That can only sing "Freedom is coming tomorrow" very well
without knowing the significance
of that freedom
and what it took for this freedom
to come

well let me take you back to the
hands of time.
In June 16, 1976
the mongoloid youth of South Africa
marched down the streets of Soweto for this freedom we have today.

BLOOD SHADE,
SCREAMS,
EXPLOIDING SOUNDS
and the cries of faces without races
filled the streets of Soweto.

Parents feared for the lives of their children,
but who knew that adolescents
could be so brave?

They stood together in unity,
the same unity we lack today.
Fought for what was right and that came with their African roots,
which we nolonger honour today,

they fought against the usage af
Afrikaans as the main language of communication at schools.
And look where it left us today.
We have the Right to choice
and the Freedom of association.

And not forgeting that,
they left us with the courage to say "WE ARE PROUDLY SOUTH AFRICANS"
One of my longest poems ever!
jessie irvin Mar 2011
once there was some self respect,now, life is control by drug useing interlect.taking all selflove aspect.turning you into a reject, forgeting pain so quick is incorrect truly a drug user defect.
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2018
~for granddaughter Wendy on her first birthday~

mailman delivers a
a small bubble wrapped envelope,
an internet purchase made a long sometime ago  
accompanied by an enjoyable, self-served and self-serving,
"you're a good fella"
          pat on the back        

a spurting act of the what-the-heck,
trigger pulling, self-pleasuring,
donating a few bucks to saving poetry,
****** in by a suckers click bait

sent money to the
   keepers of poems;   
they even give something
in return.

sensible pencils.  

a non-rational purchase;
@ $6 dollars per leaded squib,
a wooden helping kiss rife with possibilities

all for a goodly cause
preservation band society poetic

this one-and-done impulse many weeks ago, 
followed by an immediacy forgeting,
then, an eye stabbing,
a widening wow weeks later
upon receipt
of an unexpected 5 pencil's all poems poetry reciting!

5 pencils. No. 2’s,
on each a phrase,
a poet's name and their singular words parsed
(see the notes).

paired passages from five poets,
deemed and distinguished to be
commemorated-worthy
and
what's more apropos than a dangerous  instrument of a
loaded leaded pencil,
that can be used to add to the  
Ever Expanding Universe of Verbal Liturgy
("and I helped")
.
once briefly dusted off the top of closeted dreamy days,
my notions of acclaim gone, silly gone,
my only marks now are erasures,
tiny rubber sheddings on paper
that's my marker,
a minus mark of deletion.

may yet come the day,
one will one gather up the
many survivors,
poem fauns, all my orphans,
give them to the
Wendy baby,

first,
she to metamorphose those
baby squeaks and  giggles,
weighty weightless poem noises,
clapping, waving, delighted and delighting, kiss-throwing videos and that milk covered face,
into her own living words

all these noises that makes even non-poets
smile ear to ear unabashedly,
nodding in delight agreement
to her own non verbal
original poems
:
perhaps
one day a little girl
will stumble on five pencils,
mixed in within fifteen hundred poems not particularly well hid,
between worthless insurance policies and other artifacts,
memoirs and pointless depositions,
hid between her older sister and brother's
crayoned keepsakes


  with pointed newly sharpened pencils
the very same,
this,
his Wendy,
might add
to the grandpere's poem collection with
pencils begging to be used,
for they are generationally and genetically,
pre-poetically enabled,
weighting the old memories
with new ballast and new balance,
from new verbal babies
all of her own.
What happens to a dream deferred?  Langston Hughes
Won't you celebrate with me? Lucille Clifton
Do I dare disturb the universe?  T.S. Eliot
I'm Nobody! Who are you? Emily Dickinson
Where can the crying heart graze? Naomi Shibab Nye

poets.org
Kristin Kepner Aug 2015
My greatest fear is forgeting my dreams.
Never lose sight.
Rai  Apr 2013
Breath
Rai Apr 2013
Breath
Relax
Don't forget to breath
Hold on
Breath
Don't forget to relax
Going within
Don't forget to breath
Drowning in your own minds manifestations
STOP
Hold on
Relax
Breath
And recreate
Never forgeting to breath in life
And breath out your frustrations
Bunhead17 Dec 2015
I am a hard
person to love but
when I love,
I love really hard.

When I love hard
Though its hard to confess
But I end up being close to where you are
Every night is so cold
Cause I want to be close to where you are


I smile,
I try,
but the truth is...I want to die

We play mind games
We play ping pong
Forgeting that we are one,
We love ourselves but still do the opposite


You don't want me,
you don't need me,
you don't remember me,
and that kills me....

*Now that it seems that we are two edge lines.
The pain has only sharpen me
Of course no pain no gain!!!
He stares all day out into space,
looking for she whom does not show.
A frightened look adorns his face,
Is something missing, he should know?

He is not sure, why or who
these strangers are who do converse.
He doesn't know quite what to do,
why is he here? Why have a nurse?

They look at him with loving eyes.
Smiling glances flow across.
What do they seek and what's more, Why?
He does not know, he's at a loss.

These souls have so much love to share,
why are they pointing it his way?
He only wants his Mother around
and she should be here any day.

He feels sorry for such woes.
So lets them smile and talk away.
Secretly he does wish they would go,
he wants to go outside and play.

They say to him “Well bye then Dad.”
It sends such shudders down his spine.
He thinks that they must all be mad.
Call me Dad, I'm only nine.

They wave their hands as off they go
and he waves back, too be polite.
Though memories will never show
and he will not live through the night.

At his grave side his family mourn,
so sorry that he went this way.
It's hard forgeting children born,
and showing them no love display.

But as they pray they should look above
and as the sun lights, sullen day.
They might see looking down with love
the personage for whom they pray.

Disease all gone, with clear mind,
the one that earlier thought them mad.
With caring heart and thoughts so kind,
the spirit of there “Dear Old Dad”.
The loss of a parent is bad but multiplied immensely when the parent has no knowledge who you are.
2012
Tashea Young Nov 2016
Dear Mona lisa,
So Comely Just like The Queen of Sheba
Standing Wonderously As if you are The leaning Tower of Pisa
Putting me under like anesthesia
Forgeting where I am As if I have amnesia
You are Everywhere I want to be like visa
Painted With glitter Shining bright Like Fame
Some may see you as a picture living in a frame
But I......I just Pondering at The thought of just knowing your name
As I Admire from afar
Praying to get to know how truely beautiful you are
It amazes me how thru you I can see him.
You remind me of an artistic painting in a museum,
Seen Marvelously but left untouched
Yet I yearn to have your heart to clutch
Desiring One day that you and I can love one another so much
betterdays  Jun 2014
bound
betterdays Jun 2014
a poetic collaboration
with Elizabeth Squires,
(thank you for the privilege)*


high in the infinite skies,
above the clouds.
where no, naked eye can see 
particles in the ozone layer,
bounce around.
in a manner, most carefree. 
these minute, wee, little things,
e'er bobbing and moving,
so happily. 

we on the ground,
would delight,
in their existence of joy.
but we're tied to the prosaic, daily grind working,
in our nine to five,
coalface coal mines.

with axe and pick,
we chip and hack away...
whilst our minds delight,
in front-lobal play.
of waxed wing-ed flight,
of acrobatic, aerobatic display.

whilst working,
in the cramped and dubious
spaces we inhabit....
we dream, of spaces, blue, boundless and arcing-wide, forgeting, forgoing, forgiving the mindless, daily grind...
we leap,
with fragile hope,
into fledgling flight....
up to the ozone,
up toward the light...

there, in the freedom,
of this spacious playground,
we're at no command,
of employer's tools,
of work.

on our faces, we'll wear 
those  effervescent, unfettered smirks
hopping in rambunctious 
fun 
in the ozone's air,
upon the weary brow of labor release, is found.

in it's mirthful atmosphere,
which eliminates, our obligations, to our bosses.
we then farewell,
with liberating tosses.

and so we soar
in insouciant grace, unfettered,reckless,feckless 
freedom, sliced and pared, away across our wings
and faces,
joy ungaurded,
is this moment's prey
unbidden, unbound.

no longer hearing,
the sound of the grinding axe.... at play
we soar eagle high...
we soar to the sun's eye
but we are not made
for such undulterated bliss our wings of feather
and wax....
become, around us mist  
and to the ground
we do spiral....

into our adult occupations,
where there is little time.
for us to be engrossed,
in exuberant glee.
we're shackled 
and yoked to,
our heavy work day shrouds.
but our dreams of play,
with those ozone particles,
seem too impractical.

happy little vegemites
we'd be,
if our days were free.

take heart, our days off,
are nigh and on the lounge
we'll sigh, 
a well earned sigh.
Livi M Pearson Apr 2016
Bar dreams came dripping in
Beer bottles a headrest
Towers of bottles tops for weary eyes
Moonlight will capture my tries
Morning light will fill my demise

Wake me up when my mind stops raining
Flooding the gate of pain
Hurtful shadows taking my sane
Peaceful remedies go down the drain
Love always forgeting my name

Goodbye says the sun
The sky fell asleep all over agian
So did the smile from her eyes
All I see is frostbitten grass
Talk to the light while dusk tries to pass
Make your way to the end of all wars
Dont look down
Dont you fall to the floor
Someone has to remember my name
The stars remember nothing
When clouds drift ahead
While misty liqueur came making me drunk
I awake and I'm lost in my mind
I have taken the last of my time
I end up escaping the murderous fiends
I'm always hating these midnight bar dreams
Zulu Samperfas Feb 2013
I shoulda known going out of my league
I thought this would be nice, if only it's easy
but it sure aint' at all and I'm really in the fall
flat on the cement, body parts evident, splattered all over the place
even some in my own face, body meat spray, just like Israel on a day
of a suicide bomb
spent lunch time in a sob
why I am such a dumb one?
Why do I fall for such pond ****
ok, maybe he's a diamond
to someone I can't find um
but my darling he's out with someone else right now
and I'm on the shelf
four vodkas to my name
and it's such a shame
can't keep torturing myself.
should have not fallen at all
but I did, and it's true, this love
ain't gonna do, cuz as soon as I was out of sight
he ran with all his might
into another's arms
and that's really ok
because come what may
only I'm not ready for this
not playing this dating game,
not waiting for a kiss
and that's all there is
just me, vulnerable and amiss
and I thought, he's not like me
he's playing the field
and of course I was right
and now I'm out of my league
lonely
in the night
but that's gotta be the way it is.

cuz that's who I is
right now
just still a kind of pudding
of a loving human being
easily squashed and
the pain is too much
so that's how it goes
just me and the ***** and forgeting
everything that goes
Max O Jul 2011
The sweet sensation,
of another's touch,
so intense,
heart beats faster,
stumbling through words


The heat from the other's touch,
soft,
warm,
she's so calm,
so in control


She doesn't think anything of it,
just another hand,
rubbing against hers,
nothing new,
nothing special,
quickly forgeting it ever happened


On the other side,
time freezes with thought,
cannot believe this could happen,
happen to him,
thinking about that moment,
for days on end.

— The End —