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NuBlaccSoul Apr 28
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kuPhila abafileyo, apha

the journey is much more important than the destination.
we have been floating alone.


traveling, trailing, tracking – triumphantly.
this ferris ******* wheel
of energies,
the ride that ends not,
a railway of no terminal,
poetry giving refreshed lungs
to the bare, burnt trunks
of the tree of life.

i breathe again

my garden blossoms and blooms wild,
with unplanted developments sprouting summerly
every autumn.

waves of sadness crashing past shore
with sure, steady, oscillating regularity
to want to die a little less each leap year is
significant
and insignificant
as a colony of ants
swimming and swaying to the sounds
of the roaring skies above, to lead to a twin of earthquakes
stretching the ground like tyga marks, in a butterfly effect.

talk to me, what about this text?

caped saviours who could not save themselves
the skin from drum peels itself off the iris of the drum,
seeing songs, sing-song
nature’s nutshell
folding into self.

this cruel world,
calculative at its core
cold characters
callous caricatures
of an old earth,
crying rebirth’s resurrection
death unfolds into birth
birth baby’s death
between present, past,
and projected is the passing
now – apha!

amor fati

what will be, shall be
i do not know
nor care.

society sours septic,
like septimus smith,
my cynicism circles my hope
rotting like summer flesh
fresh of sprouting spring
these dead waters
taste like the wrong end of the river.

How long have you been here?

a timid time before the sun sat down
many moons ago
when the winds of birth blew westward
eastwatch towering over the dying, dead
graveyard shift at the maternity ward,
biblical cord
split between where lucifer turns devil

we ain’t cut from the same fabric,
but an army of One
feeding ghosts this manifesto
of life, ukuPhila.

--- the world has no end
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NuBlaccSoul Feb 2018
We are forgotten yesterdays of tomorrow,
note-booked mementos on thighs time travelled,
back from the future, few tsha-tsha with flashes,
blackouts and gray-matter gashes
The slurred dance of good memory,
crib-notes on collar-bones,
bare chest, a loose tie, knots, not around neck
formal education white-suits, tucked-in remembering.

A formal date chasing me indoors.
chasing me into doors of consistent
nurturing nature of the neuro
doors on the right, left doubt outside.
A manner of hindsight sighs.

Running back to tomorrow to save my 4 unborn children
from my present past. Amnesia.
The pendulum swings in reversed backwards.
Forward is just an antithesis, poor protest-art
An analogue, roman-concept coded in digital now.
Fraudulent, faux and pseudo. We look at the sun
to tell day from night. Progress practising stillness
Passage of pain frozen in time,
sun is amber lantern,
phantom of what & who has risen,
out of resin's
suspended-infinity-loop prison.
The bitterness of honey stings
sour-sweet on the taste buds of trauma.
Strolling up memory lane, compassion
for former faults. Less envy, only empathy
Fragments of a broken dream further smashed
can’t fill in the gas smothered cracks.

We died many deaths.
A mass burial, a mountain of bodies brewing
under the garden, the slumbering soil wakes.
3 is the number of perfect balance and god.
Ma’, Sister, and I.
Mother died the day Doctor
told her that the body she named
Home was evicting her, with a 10-year-notice.
She must have watched herself
watch herself
sitting on covered couches
thinking what a theft of life
this holy trinity is –
what is left
to see
here?

I saved all pain of breaking
bones for this,
I ran in opposites, dislocated my hip
tore tender tendons, I have a Belgian-Congolese tendency
never stood for much but numbness
an absence of nothing because
feelings ****.
I saved haunting ghosts of night for day
For this day
For today.
All these reservoirs of resilience won’t be enough,
ever.

I wept
winter sunsets –
to remind my new self on the coldest of nights
that once time was warm days
a slice of life’s beauty in Redemption.

Efforts tuck sweat under my arms,
gravity grounding my prideful chest down.

A bed of waves
afloat sober dreams
nightmares of wrinkled water
submarine my day dreams
and flowing peace.
Please be polite and let me be.

I now know, less hoarding.
A pair of paradox, or pandora's box: written by Phila Dyasi
Published by: NuBlaccSoul

To call it an existential crisis
would speak exclusively to a disturbance relating to the decaying case
that encapsulates my eternal hold of being.
NO!
This crisis is a crises extending to the infinite.
A philosophical and metaphysical troubled state.

NB: Please comment and critique and share :) Feedback is always welcomed.

(C) 2018. Copyrighted 19 February
2018 NuBlaccSoul™. All rights reserved. Please quote poem with author name, poem title and date published if sharing to external sites without the link or/and if sharing an excerpt of the poem.
NuBlaccSoul Aug 2017
My Name is Phila Dyasi.
I can’t remember who,
but some person
used to address me by my full name
and I took a liking to that.

My Name Is My Name.

My first name is life
Phila, to live, not simply to be alive.
Breathed into existence by uKhulu,
Phila badane abagxeki.
And yes, it’s my only one. No middle Christian name – thank Gran'

My Name is My Name.

Dyasi, my mother’s last name,
my grandmother’s maiden name,
my late great-grandfather’s last name,
uEzra Makhwenkhwe Dyasi. He preferred Ezra.
Dyasi, his father’s father’s fani, his great-grandpa’s only name – uDyasi.

Makhwenkhwe is a boyhood reference, an insult to a proud Xhosa man,
from eGcuwa nase Dutya. A man. Not a boy as these afrikaner ******* would say.
A man. A man of God. A devout man of God, Christian by faith. His name is Ezra.
Methodist by denomination, Ezra Dyasi was. In the name of the father, his is Ezra.
Married to Cecilia Nomaza Dyasi. Married to Nomaza Dyasi, uMaSobuwa, her name.

My Name is My Name.

We had beautiful names before the white men with the black book came.
We had beautiful names before they told us to name ourselves in translation.
Our names were powerful, rich with meaning before they invited themselves here.
Our forefathers’ names that told tales of our glory and beauty were discarded for theirs.
We chucked away our good names, in favour of meek ones.

Rolihlahla became Nelson.
Bantu became Stephen.
Mangalisa became Robert.
Thembisile became Chris’, short for Christopher.
Kalushi became Solomon.

Call me Phila Dyasi for short.
My nickname is Phila Dyasi.
“Ph-“ is not “F” you ****.
Please capitalise the ‘P’ and ‘D’.
I do not answer to “P.D.” any more.

Uncle Phil’.
Phillip.
Dr. Phil.
Pills-Philzit.
I could be Phila Dyasi, but my name is not my name.

My Name is My Name.

Phila-ni is not my name, that’s the other black guy
Joshua Mark, I only have one name but you cannot
bother remembering it right, my classmate of 5 years.
Phila-sande is not my name, the suffix is suffocating.
Fila is a sports brand, I am Phila Dyasi. Dyasi, Phila Dyasi.

My Name is My Name.

Ma’s name is Thembisa, Theodora is just a 1970s-safety-net.
Mama’s ma’s name is Nompumelelo. Mavis is political accommodation.
And well, Maxwell the headmaster is better than Thandabantu, uThisha oMkhulu.
My parents unlearning their old names, displacement navigating home, steadily so.
Transkei is Eastern Cape now. Ciskei is Eastern Cape now. What is in a name?

My Name is My Name.

I am not faith, grace, hope, joy
prayer, prudence, patience;
gratitude and forgiveness
is not my namesake.
I am not a product of translation, no.

My Name is My Name.

Mbali as in flower? – No, sir.
Mbali as in Mbali.
Can I call you “Q”? – Wait, a line or the letter?
Mama said, Qiqa, uQaphele, uQaqambe nto ka Qunta, qanda lam’
Lokugqibela. My existence to be reduced to a line or the latter?

My hoerskool boere buddy James,
we naturalised him Jabulani,
uMahluleli, uMbhele and myself,
gave him his BEE scorecard.
His mother a subtle, Christian racist.

Aah! iBhele elihle lase Lenge.
Khuboni, Qunta, Langa lokulunga.
noNtanda kuphakanyiswa.
Ndabezitha. Sonani singoni m’ntu.
Clan names. I am Phila of House Dyasi. The first of my name.

It’s not globalization, it’s colonisation in your colon,
the annals of white history are ****, call they by name.
The eagle saved the fish from drowning with its claws,
Call it by its name; Uncle News, Father Propaganda.
Where can we be Black, Becky?

I am not monkey, ****, kaffir, ******, *****.
I am not boy, *****, barbarian, uncivilised.
I am not primitive, predatory, sinful and stupid.
I am not native, tribe, village, jungle, bush.
And you, you are not chosen nor superior.

I am the Original Man.
Human. Hue Man.
I am the we I speak of in the book of beginnings.
My Name is the Name of Names, I am Phila Dyasi.

Born, 7th of Mahogany May. Made Man in Jet July. Black, Nubian consciousness.
The son of the sun, child of the soil, mothered by Lady Liberty, the original.
One with the earth. The warm people: the red, orange and yellow of the rainbow.
Africans fighting to be African in Africa. My black skin is on fire, a blue flame ablaze.
**I am still Phila Dyasi.
My Name Is My Name: written by Phila Dyasi
published by NuBlaccSoul

(C) 2017. Copyrighted 23 August
2017 NuBlaccSoul™. All rights reserved. Please quote poem with author name, poem title and date published if sharing to external sites without the link or/and if sharing an excerpt of the poem.
NuBlaccSoul Jul 2017
Pursuit of Happyness

I have spent countless hours
At church,
Pubs
And strip clubs.
With pastors,
Prostitutes
And drunkards.
In pursuit of happynes,
The truth
And fleshy desires.
Sang happy songs with Hedonists
Travelled with Nomads,
Got high with Rastas
And broke bread with Pariahs.
Camped on bended knees around
hell-like fires
To listen attentively to grown men
liars.

Slaughtered sheep,
Goats
And cows
For this little bit of sanity
And crowded peace of mind,
But my hands are smeared with
blood
And the dark cloud still looms
closely behind
Where the hell is this love?
I only know hearts for pumping
blood.
Not as an asylum for
Said feeling you people cannot
even describe.

And do you remember
When god said “let there be light!”?
I was unfortunate
And cast out
To write this poem
With my tongue in this grim dark
I am convinced collecting empty
beer bottles
and picking bread crumbs is my
birth right.
I am still in hot pursuit
And the journey now leads me
To a mad house.



Review**

We journey with the speaker through multiple contexts, tracing for a seemingly fleeting and insatiable feeling of contentment through discovery, trial-and-error and experimentation. In the many cultural and social spaces, we are introduced to: “Church / Pubs/…strip clubs” for which are institutions to cater to human needs in varying ways. A sense of seeking a ‘home’, the longing of a person wanting to belong in a set society could be interpreted as the message of this poem. A place of refuge, whether physical or otherwise, is sought and is never found. The unattainable asylum has been searched for within the confines of organized religion and in areas of ‘profanity’, and neither house the happiness the speaker wants. It appears that the search is for inner peace is pursued outwardly, and it is because of this that it is never attained. Furthermore, want can understand the subject not to be an individual but the personification of a place, that is ‘home’ to churches, pubs and strip clubs, but still has citizens who are not happy, a place where poverty exists even in the presence of church, pubs and strip clubs, institutions were money is found in abundance.
In wanting to make sense of the world, find comfort, balance and peace, and meeting the demands of life, all the while having faith and hope that a connection to the world will be made somehow. Church offers to fill the spiritual void of humans, pubs hope to pump gallons of socialisation down the throats of its regulars, a ‘holed-liver’ of fun, while strip clubs seek to fulfil the “fleshly desires” of our Hedonist core as humans, all contributing to the wholesome human experience.  With pubs being a platform for the social activity of drinking alcohol, we see this as an escape from the negative feelings, the chemical-imbalance causing beverage tends to remove the anxiety and stress. Also, in South Africa, drinking is a social norm, if fact one of the leading nations in consuming alcohol, furthermore if we examine the black community, particularly, this is customary. It is a behavioural expectation to as the speaker attempts to be one ‘fit in’ with his contemporaries, and not be relegated to the margins as nomads are, as gypsies are, as Rastafarians are, all minorities made ‘pariahs’ of society.
We get an idea that the state of mind of the speaker is deeply troubled and unsettled, perpetually anxious and stressed from his unending quest for ‘the truth’, that alludes him, and he cannot even receive it from the elders as they are deceptive – “grown men liars” in the first stanza. “For this little bit of sanity /And crowded peace of mind” of stanza 2 continues this image of mental instability. An “asylum” is mentioned in this stanza as well, an institution that provides care and protection to needy individuals, such as the infirm and destitute. It is a sanctuary, away from profanation and violation. Both physically and psychologically. It is a homely setting. Here one enjoys liberty from what is required by society and law for and from most people. It would appear that not even the feeling of love, “what the hell is this love”, can save the speaker from feeling like an outsider. He dismisses ‘love’ as “said feelings people cannot even describe”, an abstract concept that people do not comprehend therefore cannot practise. Stanza 3 sees the speaker reaching his destination, “And the journey now leads me/ To a mad house”. He has resigned his fate to insanity. Here he can find serenity. Ironically, he can feel a sense of connection to the world once removed from it. His spiritual transcendence, like prayer or meditation is his soloism. Isolation from the madness of life, and its many demands.
The intertextuality is rife herein, borrowing a number of images from the ‘Holy Bible’ to fit his spiritually rich poem and references. The first stanza’s chaos and the sliding scale from extreme holiness to extreme profanity, the polar opposites that are presented in closeness show how samey we are in our differences. We are united in our separateness. “Let there be light” from the Book of Genesis, Chapter 1, verse 3, represents the void, the darkness ceasing, the birth of something from nothing. The light here is not literal. The light of the world is man, as in ‘human being’. Human being who has dominion on all that happens on earth. The abject poverty presented in “picking up bread crumbs”, is a human construct, the great ill of neo-liberal capitalism, a zero-sum game that sees individuals with billions while some go without bread each day. As some would collect “empty beer bottles” to sell as to make money, to buy basics like bread, for example. This could also be a critique of the movie, “The Pursuit of Happyness”, the title of this poem, where the protagonist seeks for fulfilment in the material world. We can deduce that the speaker establishes his pursuit of happiness in the world outside of worldly things is of higher moral ground, or, that the for any community, more than money, we need to find spiritual fulfilment, or risk something of the most high value, our peace of mind – sanity.

| by NuBlaccSoul
[New-Black-Soul]
A poem review. Comment on the review, not the poem.
NuBlaccSoul Jan 2017
I'm reaching but never gripping,
It's soul ripping how they're preaching, yet aren't teaching.

I'll never hide,
even when I die.
I'll be immortalized
in some formaldehyde.
Where my soul and skin divide
I'll be like a deity,
the higher me,
doing the Lord's work,
hire me.

The humble apple pie
can satisfy no appetite
here comes the hunger tide.

When wings carried Icarus
through cutting winds
we were pulled feathers
of wisdom's birdy-body of ink
taking flight to Olympus planes
the son, seeks The Sun
OH-you.

I'm grown now,
dealing with chronic stress,
and I believe less in a deity,
it seems like too far a stretch
The stench from a faithless
Hopeless, homeless.
(C) 2016. Copyrighted 27th January
2017 NuBlaccSoUl™. All rights reserved. Please quote poem with author name, poem title and date published if sharing to external sites without the link or/and if sharing an excerpt of the poem.
NuBlaccSoul Aug 2016
This waiting room is painted of pain,
featuring faces with mouths down-turned,
impatience taking up these empty seats,
of family members already lost,
we feel like the least loved
in the mighty grasps of almighty fate's
crushing hands,
we feel like the last patients
to be visited during the night shifts,
by nurses and doctors,
the times of day when the most dust
is swept back to the humble soil
by an unseen, yet not-so-invisible bashing broom.
the old fan - barely hanging -
is closing in full circle,
a whole life lived.
dull curtains, some unhooked and five minutes to falling,
alongside the walls' stripes
designed with a print of doctors' usual words,
"I'm so sorry for your loss."  

If life truly begins at forty,
then hers ended at the starting line.
this would be a misplaced and mixed metaphor
if it weren't for olympics silently running in the background on the tv
reminds me of my mute cries, surprised eyes bulging, gaping mouths with no sound.

It ought to be a preventative measure; just a routine operation
a possibly cancerous lump.
I am flipping aimlessly through these magazine pages,
each catching a tear-drop for the dog-ears
(whoever reads them next will turn the pages over better).
Some puzzled maze pieces fall out of a box,
my baby cousin tries to gather the cardboard paper of a family tree picture,
but the least important twigs are lost, and the last friendly branch found missing.
The many portraits that make up the landscape go away from time to time.
It was just a little, smallish lump.
these news are hard to swallow.
my eyes are peeling onions.
my throat is winter-hands dry.
mum says she saw her the most alive
a few odd minutes before time clocked aunt out.
Grandma's sister blames herself for suggesting, advising, and in retrospect putting "pressure".
neutral colours ***** the Scrubs' floors,
hypothermia lurking in the corridors,
but the coke from the vending machine is medicine lukewarm.

It was a game of musical chairs,
But when the seven trumpets sounded,
the stools remained still, they stood facing eastward in hexagonal formation.
An angel ascended, the remnants were six shadows now.
With a plot twist, it's less players each round.
Who dies first wins, I've tossed too much soil on dust, my hands are *****.
We wash our hands clean with this paraffin.
Open-casket, the last sight took my breath away - the whitened clay still one,
but with the breath of life taken away, by the One, who giveth and taketh.

It's also winter our hearts,
dips of grief, dabs of black clothing, grim-reaper the thief, we still loath him.
another weekend
another sad-a-day
another funeral.
And his life was a summary,
too brief a breath, as the contraction is.
No sympathy to bother saying
"I am".
Public or private hospitals, dark clouds gather above all.

Twenty-twelve was a scar,
for four years now we are still scooping our scabs, from the bottomless pits,
that fell from ever-fresh wounds picked at a tad too prematurely,
so very early.
Some of the things we will take to our graves
will take us to our graves, as we exhume our pre-mourning selves.
And hurt still drops in drips,
red-bottomed-sticky feet from the blood-washed tiles,
the pain and the paint in permanent.
Some matters you can only think about
when you are half-awake and half-asleep, because these nightmares
are too real to be dreams.

uThixo Ovayo unoNobantu, nabantu bakhe bonke ngamaxesha onke.

~ by New-Black-SoUl #NBS
(C) 2016. Phila Dyasi. Copyrighted 31 August 2016. NuBlaccSoUl™. Intellectual property. All rights reserved. Please quote poem with author name, poem title and date published if sharing to external sites without the link or/and if sharing an excerpt of the poem. || Thank you to Brian Walter and Lewish Bosworth for helping with the editing. I sincerely appreciate it.
NuBlaccSoul Apr 2016
I am the broken dream
of the sloppery porter. 
A vase that never survived
the spitting furnace fires.
The clay that cracked
at Man's man-handles of mould.
Some riverside thought,
washed away by the sweeping rains, never created.

I am the seed that never got to see it's flower bloom.
Gone a short summer too soon.
Like,
The shelter that could offer no security...warmth...cover
--- my heart.

Uprooted with our home, 
and left me in this haunted house,
Where nothing rattles me more than my thoughts.
When the winds came I caved in.

Thoughts of how I journey through life
On a constant adventure of the unknown.
Where even my own perception of myself
Has been left distorted by how I continue to be left feeling how I am truly estranged,
An unwelcome guest within the confines of what used to be my humble abode.

I'm a stranger around familiar walls that whisper commands of eviction,
Under-breath chants of...
Echoes of...
Soft whispers of...
Gentle shivers from...
Subtle quivers from...
Shattering outbursts of the deafening silence.

Home has become a ghost of spirits ascended,
Of what I probably thought to life,
Of what 'reality' has continued to have me believe is what it should be,
Then again,
All I had was a glimpse into what a misconception I had fallen into the deception of.

Could it be gullibility?
Or perhaps,
Vulnerability.
Falling into the trap of believing something to be,
Just to fill that void of a missing feeling of belonging, arriving.

“When my house forgives my heart for plundering its walls, we will be home.”
(C) 2016. Phila Dyasi. Nonkululeko Anicia Khumalo. All rights reserved. Intellectual property of authors. || This is another piece for the experimental writing collection, Writings & The Other Things. This is the second collaboration between Azanian king, nublaccsoul and Queen Nonkululeko Anicia Khumalo. The first being the poem titled "AZANIA" which is found here. Today, the 27th of April, is an important day in South Afrika. It is a public holiday known as FREEDOM DAY. “27 April commemorates the day in 1994 when the first democratic election was held in South Africa. Today, South Africa celebrates Freedom Day to mark the liberation of our country and its people from a long period of colonialism and White minority ******* (apartheid).

Apartheid 'officially' began in South Africa in 1948, but colonialism and oppression of the African majority had plagued South Africa since 1652. After decades of resistance, a stalemate between the Liberation Movement and the Apartheid government was reached in 1988.

The ANC, South African Communist Party (SACP), Pan African Congress (PAC) and other organisations were later unbanned on 2 February 1990, and a non-racial constitution was eventually agreed upon and adopted in 1993. On 27 April 1994, the nation finally cast its vote in the first democratic election in the country. The ANC was then voted into power, and Nelson Mandela was inaugurated as the President of South Africa on 10 May.

It is important to note however, that "freedom" should mean emancipation from poverty, unemployment, racism, sexism and other forms of discrimination. We are 15 years into our new democracy and many of these issues are still rife in our country. We are still a long way away from solving many of the legacies of Apartheid and now face new challenges, like the growing inequality among South Africans and political and economic instability in the region caused by a new elite who are interested in pursuing their own interests.

Freedom Day therefore serves as a reminder to us that the guarantee of our freedom requires us to remain permanently vigilant against corruption and the erosion of the values of the Freedom Struggle and to build an active citizenry that will work towards wiping out the legacy of racism, inequality and the promotion of the rights embodied in our constitution.

Further reading: Freedom day, 27 April

References:
• UKZN, Freedom Day Celebrations 27th April, from University of Kwa-Zulu Natal, [online], Available at scnc.ukzn.ac.za [Accessed: 21 April 2009]
• OTB, National Freedom Day Celebrations, 27th April 2011, from Out The Box - Productions, [online], Available at www.otbproductions.co.za [Accessed: 29 April 2014]
Last updated : 28-Apr-2015 ”

This is for NomaFreedom. This is for the children of the rich soil of Afrika. Nonkululeko in known in the anglican language as 'FREEDOM', so the co-author is honoured today. It is interesting as we are born in different time periods in our diversified nation. I was born in 1996, post-democracy and my co-writer was born pre-democracy so this is truly an experience from both sides of time. The poem itself is not about today.

It is what it is. Enjoy.
All praise due to the most High.

Ooooh, before I forget!

Please peep the link:

https://issuu.com/jamagsa/docs/welovejazzandgraffiti?e=0/34847808

#JaMag Edition 8. My work is featured here.  


It's the body, mind 'n spirit/
Father Son, Mother God/
I pray you hear it!!!!!
I see life in grey,
Where black does not stand alone without white,
Where the melanin of my skin does not factor as to how society sees me,
Where Mother’s language that rolls from my tongue is never labeled.


The only struggle I should face is between the relationships
I try to mount
...between pen and paper
…between my head and my heart.
Where common sense should trump any and every stereotype,
Where the only thing foreign is the knowledge I am yet to acquire,
Or the journeys I am yet to trudge upon.


Borne of the soil that bears some of the greatest fruits,
I am one of Her many blessings,
An Afrikan princess that is still rising to her majestic throne,
That seeks to reign over a land united
Behind the death of the rainbow;
The rebirth of decolonialism.
And casts all children of the corn of these chains,
Golden bronze bonds
That continue to enslave the people of true liberty, and prosperity.
The liberty that ascertains that no man shall ever be consumed
By their hunger for superiority.

For

I AM because WE ARE!
This is a collaborative effort between myself and @NuBlaccSoul which is to commemorate Human Rights Day (21 March)
NuBlaccSoul Feb 2016
My armless legs carried my body
to the finish line
that my spent will had given up on already,
prior to the bell ring.
Dehydrated and devoid of energies,
in need of divine moving waters,
the very same that spring out of me.

You see, my mum and Uncle Siya'
are but blurry snapshots
in the fading distance,
sights of surroundings in doubles,
from fatigue.
But the running winds carried
their vibrant vuvuzela voices,
a vote-of-confidence hymn
sung by the choir of one plus one,
reverberated from ear-drum down,
in my heart the beat found rhythm,
the lyrics were prosthetics of love,
the art of ululating with our praise songs
and proclaiming proudly
our clan names
sung and said boldly,
megaphone manner
with the tenor
and a Brenda Fassie cadence
by iBhelekazi elihle, uSonani, unoNtanda kuphakanyisa, iLangalokulunga lase Lenge, uNdabezitha, Ahhh Khuboni,
UMama wam'.


And so I drew the sap
for the last lap
from branchy wells
of my dry back.
My bony chest having troubles caging an ambitious and a hopeful heart,
this palpitating ticker.

Today's high-jump is the rise
of an amputated grasshopper,
the leap of an injured springbok.
No, I will not pass the buck;
for any failure like a baton -
the relay run was victory undone.
Standing on this last leg,
800 metres long.
No looking back, cutting curves
at the apex.
  RUN!                                              

Neatly knitted nerves
of my ten toes
endure every tread, 
barefoot feats,
they have to
for my brother
and his numb-below's sake,
we are on bended knees
for a miracle still,
And he is pushing the wheel
until he wins.
Balancing aggregately
on losing legs,
rugby pillars
turn to
marathon sticks.
The petty party
is a few years over,
and no pity is left over to offer.
RUN!                  

Diabetes is sour jokes now,
bile-bitter bite from my great-grand's
cause of death, distasteful how i did not even bury her.
Grandma's mouthful of dentures
denouncing my youth's sweet tooth.
My blood in need of a sugar rush
for the kilometres left, 
to speeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed.
RUN!

Coach André Leach said the race
was mine to lose.
My hothead coupled with coldfeet and topped off with
mixed emotions,
I wished I had the same
unwavering belief in my destiny.
No spikes,
I cannot keep up with the
price hikes
and no takkie,
their new trend is tacky.
After school is not afterschool,
hours of practice await
and an uphill walk home after.

All my efforts would have been that of  laying eggs on the roof
if my chicken flight didn't out fly
the hen on my back,
and the last grain-ground
I must gain now, again.
I ran with a quickened pace,
only behind my dream,
a few steps amiss from happiness.
That feeling is fleeting,
ever too fast,
so I chase contentment instead,
and that I caught up with.

Middle-position podium, I stand,
victiorious!
Winner is me, with the posture
of David Rudisha, but not as pronto
I'm 2 minutes: 32 seconds:
93 semi-seconds fast.
RUN! RUN! Run for your dreams
Run towards your dreams. RUN!
Baleka!
And don't look back.

~ by New-Black-SoUl #NBS
(C) 2016. Phila Dyasi. Copyrighted 2016. NuBlaccSoUl™. Intellectual property. All rights reserved. Please quote poem with author name, poem title and date published if sharing to external sites without the link or/and if sharing an excerpt of the poem. || The title is in the Azanian language of IsiXhosa, "Baleka!" is a command for one to run, whether to or away from something or someone.
This poem is an extended metaphor based on athletics,  long distance track event - 800 metres as I look back to my last victory in the aforementioned event and the other life-changing experiences in life's lengthy race. This is my favourite poem I've written yet.

Peace and love upon your head, thank you for reading/liking/reposting/adding to collections.
Saturday December 10 2016 19:23 I did some editing. Re-read!
-nublaccsoul.
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