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Tony Tweedy Apr 1
Offshore breeze of more bluster than steady.
Drawing white tips to waves of an emerald tinge.
White crested green seas surrounding.
Hands clenched to rail covered by misty spray.
Rolling and pitching immunized by the visions before young eyes.
Sky of pristine blue with radiant white wisps of cloud.
Horizons unending even where blue and green meet.
Two seals at play in the tossing waves.
Glistening grey bodies ducking and diving beneath breaker.
The prow through frothing ocean, pushing aside waves with ease.
Carving on steadily through liquid green and white anger of sea.
To the starboard horizon a darkening shape.
Bands of cotton stitched atop.
Drawing now noticeably ever nearer.
Almost by magic the horizons shape appears,
wind gives way to breeze.
Waters now at ease taking on more familiar and everyday hues.
White shapes astride the shore with tones that hint and suggest.
Now ever nearer becoming buildings and the buildings a city.
All the while the stitched cotton band reshaped to form clouds.
Blanketing perfectly the mountain called Table-Top.
Young eyes still locked in wonder, hands still holding rail.
Now docked along quayside, vast cityscape beyond.
Table-Top with cloth as backdrop.
About 3 hours of time compressed. Remembered vividly... retold unjustly.
The Calm Feb 19
The world is too big
And I, too small
So I rely on my God
To understand it all
My mind can't seem to comprehend
the things that aim, the world to end
or bring the knees of an African to bend
or millions of jews to the fire send
my neurons a gatling gun , my eyes ascend
my fist I raise, with the heavens contend
God I trust you, all good all powerful, but me You won't defend?
Am i a fool to love you till my end?
I can't understand it all,
all this hate, to a bullet or a noose will I fall?
but still instinctually all I do is call
Call on a good God
My thoughts recently
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 hell
To a nation stripped naked 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 hell
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:
Amazon, Apple Music, iTunes, Deezer, Google Play, Pandora, Saavn, SoundCloud, Spotify, Tidal, YouTube, Jango Radio, Nicovideo (Japan), IQIYI (China) and YOUKU (China)

Sean Achilleos' Book 'An Affair with Life' is obtainable from the following platforms:
Smashwords, Amazon, Wordery, Kobo, Exclusive Books, Takealot, HelloPoetry, Loot, Overdrive, Bokus, Barnes and Noble
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 hell.

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.
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