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The Guardian Sep 2018
"Congo mend her pain for she has mourned enough for her husband.

Congo feed the old man's  kids for his hands are tied.
Congo help her grandson he's been taken for slavery.
Congo your children.
Congo your land.
Congo your people.
Congo your riches.
Congo the natives.
Congo send her to sleep for her mind has been over flooded by the unbearable nightmares.
Congo your son has been arrested for wearing a suit. Congo the priests are being killed for spreading the word of the almighty.
Congo mothers are being ***** while men are getting killed Congo he's bleeding and you are fading.”



-Andile Ashanti
600 E M O T I O N S In 1 Poem
Ron Gavalik Aug 2017
Sitting in traditional wooden pews
back in the mid-2000s,
a guest priest from the heart of the Congo
delivered a homily in broken English
about how his country had been torn to shreds
by warlords who control that region's
vast and valuable mineral deposits.

As the priest spoke in gentle passion,
a sea of sympathetic white faces listened
to him describe the rapes and murders,
the poverty and oppression.
One middle-aged woman in a yellow dress near the front
quietly sobbed at the reminder of true suffering,
a torture greater than mere death.

Out of a sense of courtesy
or possible humble generosity,
the priest did not disclose the minerals
that had brought on such gluttonous violence
were the very elements that make our electronics
flash and glow as perpetual escapes.

Instead, the priest requested
we pray with him
for future mystical solutions
to immediate physical problems.

As we filed out of the church
the older woman who'd wept
discussed driving to the local mall.
Apparently, there'd been a sale on mobile phones.
The crisp spring breeze had dried our tears,
and the power of the almighty dollar
wiped away our curiosity
and our short-term memories.
A memory I had today.
Tuffy Mutombo Aug 2017
Roots of kings and queens
Subjected to slavey
Diamond filled graves
Digging deeper ending up ******
Government fornicating with corruption
Birthing an evil nation
War Everywhere for a nation going nowhere
Faith filled churches praying for peace
While the people are sleepless
Anger and pain is all they can release
ConnectHook Feb 2017
♪♫♫♪♫

running fluid, flowing
like love, like life, like blood, like knowing
the living waters from the  throne of God –
it starts slow and it builds
equatorial storms, tropical sadness
as the guitars take you home
in reverberations of eternity
through endless repetitions of longing
through palm-branched alleys and red-dirt gullies
breeze caressing guavas and passion-fruit
past dictators’ mansions
past rusting shantytowns
over ditches running with sewage
into colors too intense to bear
colors to make you cry:
greens unseen in cold climates,
red earth, flowering jacarandas
women walking wrapped in rainbows
huge baskets on their heads
in the blare of traffic
in the madness of African cities
through the Congolese night that calls your name
and the smell of poor people’s food over cook fires
carried on the musical breeze
children smile and beggars crawl in the dust of the street
obscure wars are fought,  false peace proclaimed
while the bones are exhumed
as the Congo jazz rolls on, flows on
like silver sorrow dancing gold in the heart of darkness
past liter bottles of beer sweating cold
on the bar table by the flower’s starkness
lighting up the midday – when those horns come in
on the boat from Cuba, by way of Bruxelles and Paris
blaring triumphant and strong
like a shipment of diamonds and uranium
glittering in the drunken afternoon of a song with no end.
♪♫♫♪♫♪♫♫♪♫
Tabu Ley Rochereau, Pamelo Mounka, Mbilia Bel, Franco & TPOK Jazz

https://connecthook.wordpress.com/2013/06/27/congo-guitars/
Matthew Rousseau Feb 2016
we're bombarded by the American Dream
but what we fail to realize
is that to dream, you have to be asleep
but remember, your soul is your own to keep

False consciousness runs rampant through the world
Ninety percent of American media owned by the same
five companies makes TV and the news seem so mundane
but when I think, I realize it's all of us to blame

the only power the system has is what we give
we need to let go of hate, and let live
when in Rome you step outside your comfort zone,
and when you expand your horizons,
the whole world can make you feel alone,

what I've come to realize is there is so much more than this
when we die all of our fear gives way to bliss
and on that spiritual transformation we can let go of what we miss
In each of our crowns lies the infinite
and we know that it doesn't matter, all the petty ****

According to Marx, economy is the root of society
and in capitalism, our thirst for money is ironic and funny
We seek to provide for ourselves and those we love
but when we have to much, the hand doesn't fit the glove

In every cellphone, laptop, and gaming device
lies a mineral mined behind our blind eyes
tantalum is mined in the Congo, and in 2000
people were forced from their poor housing
to mine this mineral so you and I
could get a ps2 from Santa, while they barely got by

I've learned even the poorest here,
Have opportunities barely realized,
We can change the world if we dismantle disguise
There is a balance for everything,

You can't have capitalism without socialism,
our social structure is but a prism
I'm going to edit this one a bunch because there is so much to be said and I have so much inspiration for this poem. I hope you guys like it, and if you couldn't tell it's really politically motivated #feelthebern
ConnectHook Nov 2015
♪♫♪♪

Your beaded snakeskin loincloth

strung beneath humid palms

cool rippling breeze that calms

our hammock hung under thatch

what a catch . . .

your Amazons running into my Congo

lost track of my bongo

back about one mile

from the sources of the Nile:

your jungle smile.

Restoring all celestial things

deep within your tropical clearings . . .

flowing slowly, going loco

at the mythic mouth of the Orinico;

shake your nut-brown biospheres

and banish all my worldly fears.

Dusk is nearing — clearing the hill

insects trilling a sinuous thrill;

the yuca half-mashed in the clay ***

the witch doctor hungover in his hut

while our little fire smolders

near the mountains of the moon

—or are they only boulders?

Come soon

Jesus, Lord of the Jungle . . .
NOTES: ♪♪♫♪♪♫♫
♪♫♪♪
NewAgeOfAnarchy Nov 2014
In the great land of the Congo

Lives the Mubti people, live in the lush jungles of Ituri.

A society of equality, free of hierarchy

Leaderless kinship, govern by anarchy.

They live in true paradise, harmony with nature.
©2014 copyright Michael Cross

— The End —