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Shlomo Feb 6
The scale of my ambition.

It’s getting too large to construct on my own.

Like many Africans, I’ve had enough.

News coverage showcasing this region.

Does nothing but reinforce the legion that you bring forth.

Continuously.

Now, I’ll spare you the analogies and set it out clearly.

To all those that are out to “end poverty”.

I applaud your initiative, your drive and determination.

So bear with me as I lay into you. I’m doing it out of love. Trust me.

Whenever I hear your mission.

I think “here we go again with the bare minimums.”

Nothing but bare minimums.

I yearn to be part of a new breed of Africans.

Who want to do more than just end poverty.

What about all those who have escaped its deathly grip.

But still live precarious and unfulfilled lives?

My mission is to build an empire.

To empower. To nurture innovation and prosperity.

One that surpasses anything you could ever imagine and conceive.

If you think that’s ridiculous and absurd.

Wait till you see how I plan on going about this deed.

If I hear another **** politician talking about “ending poverty.”

I swear I’ll ******* snap.

But don’t worry, it’ll just be a picture.

One more to my growing catalogue.

Reminding me of your never-ending plan of world *******.

“So remember guys, bare minimum. Say it with me.

“Bare minimum.”
Sorry if I hurt your feelings. That's not my intention. I'm just as passionate about this as you are.
https://soundcloud.com/shlomotion/the-ubiquitous-boy
The Aftermath of Injustice

In Memory of Neil Aggett
1953 - 1982

You crossed the border to offer your expertise
To render a service to a people without a voice
A people in ****
To a nation stripped ***** by gross injustice
Like a tree with no leaves
Stripped bare in autumn
Left with no shade from the scorching sun
The fruits had all been stolen by wicked men
Devoured by the debauched in khaki attire
Swollen and puffed with pride like pastry in an oven
They took you captive like Jesus once was
Punished for doing good
Until your heart cried out with an inner voice
Why the whips and chains
Wet and cold electrified feet
You knew then ... You wouldn't get out alive
Your passing cruelly induced
To end your life ... Your only relief
Like a whisper in a crowd
Who would hear your cry
Of course the papers had to say
He did it himself ... He did it his way
Oh how I wish I was invisible
There in your cell of ****
To name and shame the faces
Who unjustly got saved by the bell

Written by Sean Achilleos 25 January 2019©

Additional:
In this life it may seem that there are people who get away with almost anything and everything.
And perhaps they do.
However, only in this lifetime.
But sadly not in the life thereafter.
Like an alarm bell that breaks the deathly silence early in the morning.
It's not what you want to hear, but a necessary truth.
Written by Sean Achilleos 25 January 2019©
www.facebook.com/SeanAchilleosOfficial/
Sean Achilleos' Music is available on the following platforms:
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Sean Achilleos' Book 'An Affair with Life' is obtainable from the following platforms:
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Liam Gwynn Jan 23
Eyes white as ivory staring blankly from those rancid depths
Legs trembling and heart stuttering at the closeness of death
Retreat away from stinking pit into the light
Where a man oh so “civilized” and skin so white
Will pull me from despair into a beautiful white haven
A false sanctuary where not is true and all are craven
A poem I wrote after reading Heart of Darkness.
Shlomo Oct 2018
Emerging economies.

What they’re emerging from I don’t know.

My guess, the depths of ****.

From the frying pan, right into the fire, or worse; a well.

A deep hole stronger than gravity, the force.

To be forever under the thumb of remorse.



A modern era of endless acts, policies and bla bla bla.

Shut up with all your platitudes.

I see what’s really going on. Aha!

You speak of sustainable development.

Nice to know that you’ve led by example.

Carried the mantle for all these years.



Centuries of ruthlessness, now veiled in sheep’s clothing.

But you won’t shut up. Because you don’t speak.

You never have. You just do.

Each day that goes by, you carry on anew.

Behind all the talk of hope, equality and more progress,

it seems the wolves are lurking.



Cooking up the next tool to subdue countless.

This time, not behind closed doors. But in plain sight.

It’s scary to imagine such spite.

Each year that goes by it becomes clearer that you never cared.

You sold guns, drugs and all kinds of war.

And each time, you kept coming back for more.



You’ve built up antibodies that ensure your survival.

But sometimes I wonder if you’re alive at all.

But what do I know?

Maybe you’re more alive than ever.

Doing what you do best but always more clever.

That not even the most stable of geniuses can evade your pressure.



A strong enough foundation that each break makes you stronger,

So strong that not even the Gremlin can take you under.  

Against this dreary background, foregrounded is nothing short of magical.

Beyond hope, prayers or a thoughtless radical.

Or maybe this is all just fake outrage.

An attempt to evade the boredom of this endless monotony and baggage.



Or maybe, the term is out of date.

Like every other, that makes me increasingly more irate.

In which case, this poem is at least ten years late.

Or maybe there are too many maybes’.

And I’m perfectly suited for this time of vague uneasiness and indifference.

In which case, my imagination probably needs more sociology and less a lesson in rhymes.
Piano backed narration @ https://anchor.fm/shlomotion/episodes/Emerging-Economies-e1s1a6
Mathalea Jan 19
I don’t wear a cape on my back, I wear all the tales of heartbreak like scars so that whoever I turn my back to knows I’m no stranger to disappointment.

I don’t fight evil with fancy gadgets or fight like violence was the first boy who ever intertwined their lips with mine, no I say all the right things, my words a honeycomb, my lies oh so real. I’ll bring out the good in the evil and right when it believes that my love is genuine I’ll show my back and walk away. That alone will knock anything down leaving it clasping it’s chest for air.

I don’t wear a mask because I don’t need a secret identity. I am already so confused with who I truly am behind all these metaphors, I don’t need another identity when I can barely figure out the one tied to my name.
Lucius Furius Dec 2018
This desert is our life.
From the dry earth we gather roots and melons.
Over the endless sands we hunt the gemsbok and the springbok.
  
Sometimes the ga roots are shriveled and bitter.
Sometimes men are sick with thirst and hunger.
  
When there is water we drink and sing and clap our hands.
When there is food we eat and dance and clap our hands.
  
The eland does not come to us and ask to be eaten --
one must know how to make the arrow and poison it
and where to look and how to hide and shoot. . . .
  
What man is so foolish as to expect more? To expect
the rain to be always falling, his eggs full of water and
his stomach full of meat?
  
You have strong animals to carry you.
You have much food and water.
Your digging sticks are hard and sharp.
Your shooting-sticks are like lightning.
  
You are a powerful man and a good man.
I can see that in your eyes.

But what you offer is a dream.
  
You can give us water and meat.
You can fill our hands with tobacco and perfect beads.

But you cannot give us happiness.

  
A man can only drink so much and then he is full.
If a man is always eating honey, he tires of it and becomes sick.
  
And even if all life were sweet --
what man is not food for lions and dogs?
A man who has tasted in his life no bitterness will find death very bitter.
  
My mouth longs for sweetness
but sweetness brings bitterness
and in the end they are one.
  
So I ask you:
Take your digging sticks and your shooting-sticks.
And do not leave them behind.
Go to the green lands you came from.
We shall walk in this desert as we always have.
(The occasion for this speech is the arrival of an expedition
headed by a European in a Bushman werf around the year 1900.)

Hear Lucius/Jerry read the poem: humanist-art.org/audio/SoF_007_bushman.MP3 .
Note: This poem is part of the Scraps of Faith collection of poems ( https://humanist-art.org/scrapsoffaith.htm )
Hannah Dec 2018
He doesn’t talk much about where he came from;
maybe he’s scared the truth of the place would speak more than he could.
Maybe it’s hard to explain the hunger or the times the power goes off or the constant fear to someone who’s flown above it all.
Though we don’t talk about the sand or the fruit on the trees or what the rain feels like at the end of the day either.
We’ve lived moment to moment and learned what we know of each other through the present.
Somehow I yearn for this place I’ve gathered pieces of. The place I cannot know but that grew inside me.
Joseph C Ogbonna Dec 2018
I woke up early on a Christmas morn.
Gladly waiting for Santa before dawn.
Looking through blinds in anxiety I'd torn,
I'd hoped to see him approaching my lawn,
in costumes in previous years he had worn.
But in disguise he came with a French horn,
playing elegies of demons unborn.
Wheat, barley, oats, rice and grains of sweet corn
filled his socks for a land which was war-torn.
I'd thought the usual Santa would return.
But a different Santa came to fore-warn
me of a nagging menace that had drawn
my nation to the brink, and seeks to drown
her in a season of yuletide to mourn.
This poem is dedicated to children in war-torn Africa and Syria. Where Christmas is celebrated in adversity.
Jason Joshua Dec 2018
The poor 
Homeless 
Dad
Mom
Son
Daughter
One by one 
Died of hunger 

The aunt 
The uncle 
The niece 
The cousin 
Followed them later 

Oh! Poverty 
Killing all the makers of history 
Will you and I live to see 
Poverty being history? 

Eradication of poverty all over the world
Is a must and justice to the people
Poverty is not a curse or a blame
It is surely the system's failure in sharing.

Poverty the most dreaded thing to experience
For a thinking mind to live without food or resources
Or to the barest minimum of necessities
where it is denied is a very cruel thing to experience

Blame the world of poverty and try for corrections
Share the resources to such an equality
At least for two square meals a day
And minimum basic necessities that's the wants of humans.

Respect the human being and its dignity all over the world
Surely poverty is the most objectionable thing
The confidence of life losing in its bottom lines
The unhelpful society accuses the poverty as fate.

The world is so improved in living conditions
But the system in sharing is rotten and archaic
Change those inequalities in perfect peace
Allowing the human life more possibilities and change.

Life is short and human life is precious
Only the world order can save the humans
The world is fully capable to look after
If there is a perfect world with change of mind
Contentment, kindness, and humanity being preserved.
Nomkhumbulwa Dec 2018
They never spoke again,
I have waited a year and a half,
I have reached out time and again,
But there comes a time when enough is enough.

I cannot force them back into my life,
Cannot force them to utter just one more word,
I will always love them just the same,
But their silence causes so much pain.

It feels like a whole population died,
Been wiped clean off the Earth;
And knowing in reality so many think I lied,
Just makes me want to run away and hide.

I cannot do anymore than I have,
I have forgiven them for how they treated me,
I completely understand the culture, though its sad,
I cannot go back and change what happened to me.

I miss them dearly,
I think about them every day,
I think about the pain I caused them,
Now in my history they will forever stay.

I long to have contact with cousins,
Aunties, Uncles, and friends,
But I know this will never happen,
And I will likely never see them again.

Its all so mixed up in my mind,
The events that caused me to be singled out,
If id had the choice, I would have gone to court,
Because then I would have less doubts.

I am disturbed by memories,
And also by the suicidal hanging,
And knowing that my people,
See me at fault for everything.

It makes me feel ***** and ashamed,
That I, and the other women are still blamed,
And for what is it that we have done?
To be born as "women" is all we have done.

Kevin, Maisie, Clare, Anna,
Eileen, Rita, Peter, Barbara,
Candice, Kerry, Alex, Teeny,
Susan, Wendy, Dennis, and Jelly...

Those names are so very few
Of the huge number of relatives I have,
I still remember the day at the refuge,
When you turned me away - even that made me so sad.

If it were not for South African women,
Running the refuge out of sight out of mind,
Then there would be nowhere for Island women,
Nowhere to turn, yet these women were so kind.

But I know the rest of you still look down on me,
As you no doubt look down on many others,
And what did we do to deserve this?
To be born as women; in that you are so disgusted.

Disgusted with me for questioning abuse,
For speaking out for the others,
Disgusted that I have broken the "silence",
For women are not to be "free", I have discovered.

For if women are to be "free" - then they must be alone,
Discarded by all and everyone,
For "causing you pain",
For "shaming the Island's name".

I still love you -
And always will,
You hold a special place in my heart,
That no one else can fill.

.....I was born a woman - entering this World having already committed the crime....and for that I am sorry.
Random middle of the night piece.
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