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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/old-site/audio/SoF_007_bushman.MP3 .
Note: This poem is part of the Scraps of Faith collection of poems ( https://humanist-art.org/scrapsoffaith.htm )
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.
Africa my Africa
Africa of proud warriors in the ancestral savannah,
Africa my grandmother sings of
Beside her distant river
I have never seen you
But my gaze is full of your blood
Your black blood spilt over the fields
The blood of your sweat
The sweat of your toil
The toil of your slavery
The slavery of your children.

Africa, tell me Africa
Are you the back that bends
Lies down under the weight of humbleness?
The trembling back striped red
That says yes to the sjambok on the road of noon
Solemnly a voice answers me
"Impetuous child, that young and sturdy tree
That tree that grows
There splendidly alone among white and faded flowers
Is Africa, your Africa." It put forth new shoots
With patience and stubbornness put forth new shoots
Slowly its fruits grow to have
The bitter taste of liberty
The struggle for liberty
A journey from Soweto to Jozi have turned a suicide note,
Written like a poem through every inch the Shosholoza cover.

We survive anyway,
With the apartheid legacy written on our bleeding skins,
The rainbow nations I have seen are the slashes painted on my father’s skin.

Every day we survive crime, ***, cancer and the brutality of our own negative thoughts.
Every time I enter the train I see depressed souls, I see the effects of apartheid although we try so much to act like it never happened.
Shosholoza is a name of a train in South Africa that is used by mostly Black people, a third class train.
chickens still wait for corn
by the door of my granny's kitchen,
where sun once rose with a daughter
in skin of gold, and set with a son,
with silvery dreams

little girls still dance in twilight,
clad in the nakedness of innocence,
their chests bare, where ******* ought to be,
their scarves wild, flowing in the wind
and their voices climb palm trees,
in a bid to beat the boys to their dreams.

little boys form a group of toughlings
flooring the other in smart fast moves,
wrestling for fun, and raising dead dusts,
dusts of their forebears, who warred,
and set boundaries they'd grow up to meet:
and then forget unwritten bro codes,
forge new laws and grow cold,
act brave and grow old...
watch dreams fade into the dark

and the song of wasted years
punctuated with short sighs
shall form a new language
that tumble down our throats, tasting strange,
yet worth the dirge after all

adieu is the song, and
the circle goes on,

life
EddyDYung Nov 2018
Open arms of our ancestors were chained by salvation
Imprisoned for their hospitality to wolves in white robes
Exemplars of ideal piety in a sea of persistent savagery
Anathematizing our ethnicity to centuries of slavery.

A rich heritage was converted by ecclesiastics
In exchange for a theology void of its vast history.
Kingdom's senior to Rome birthed civilizations, agriculture and commerce.
Yet its philosophy was condemned and baptized by brainwashers.

Our fruitful Motherland and legends found wanting by their holy book,
Genesis 9:25-27:
"Cursed be Canaan! The lowest of slaves will he be to his brothers. He also said, 'Blessed be the Lord, the God of Shem! May Canaan be the slave of Shem."

A poisoned doctrine arrested mentality of lineages
To deprive and surrender self, seeking an afterlife eternity,
To wholeheartedly fund false prophets n preachers of hypocrisy
And remain blinded to our heritage and congenital blessings.

"Africa must wake up, Sleeping sons of Jacob"
In slumber we backboned empires enteprises and entertainment
Still failing to grant our compensation and true valuation
Cause we are now followers to their Chains of Salvation.
A poem to enlighten myself as well as readers about the Misfortunes and sufferings of Africa and Africans who depend on religion to set them free, the same religions that holds us captive.
Jim Davis Nov 2018
Our eyes filled with wonder
Our minds twisted in change
Much like hobbits going afar
Then returning to sweet home
Our lives were changed forever

We rode slow and flew so fast
In tin cans from here and to there
Never taking off our shoes
Hardly touching the ground
Hardly touching Africa

Hiding behind camera lens
Wearing our face in masks
As a people not African black
Who worry not the future
Living easily in time’s moment

Like sardines aligned in tight
Wild creatures within confines
Electricity, steel, and wire
Tall fences stopping escape
To other worlds and realms afar

Except the leopards of night
Who easily roam across
All defined or artificial borders
Escaping cramped tin cans
Basking in Africa’s buttery light

Except for our African guide
With Christian name of Dexter
But named actually as
Tichayambuka Nekutenda
Nenyasha Chikerema

More comfortable sleeping in
Deep bush amongst beasts
Without down comforters,
perfumes, socks, or shoes
Living life in happy quiet freedom

A man raised speaking Bantu
in a small Shona tribe
Born in the Zimababwan village
Of Mutekedza in Mashonaland
East in the Chivhu Area.

From his father’s family
Given a totem of Zebra Brown
Then recited in love poem daily
by his proud mother
To affirm him as a man

Although he must also
be like the leopard
Unconfined in simple borders
Or tin can walls all around
Able to traverse the world

We as tourists were and are
Salty, smelly, near rotten sardines
I see him smile
And I laugh, and I know
Ndino ziva anorarama se  mbada


©  2017 Jim Davis
Notes:  The last line in Shona language means “I know he lives as a Leopard”
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