"rands" poems - Hello Poetry

You choose to ask me about me, you choose to want to know me. You speak words out my vocabulary! You speak of your world so fine. You lure me into your mind. You try speak the truth while talking lies. You tell me about beauty and brains combined. You tell me I look fine and my poetry is in line. You tell me you'd want to know if I'm woman enough. If I can really play tough with whips and cuffs! I ask you how? Cause this is my body? What more can a woman define being a woman? I then realise the misconception. Try give you direction, but your minds path is too narrow, filled with ***** ***** and lubes! Reluctant to teach a head with no backbone, I smile:) you then begin again. You tell me that that smile you have, is worth a million rands, you tell me my curves don't lie, that could handle me right? you tell me about the bed, the floor, the kitchen counter, you define me by how many rounds I can encounter! This is my body..how dare you try you undress me? How dare you define my womanhood out of desperate needs? You terminate my soul and don't bother to ask more. You say thanx like I did a good job. For watering your ego and moaning your insecurities away. Respect my body sir. Then ill Salute you.

0

Mar 24, 2014

Mar 24, 2014 at 7:17 AM UTC

itumelengba

Respect my body

You choose to ask me about me, you choose to want to know me. You speak words out my vocabulary! You speak of your world so fine. You lure me into your mind. You try speak the truth while talking lies. You tell me about beauty and brains combined. You tell me I look fine and my poetry is in line. You tell me you'd want to know if I'm woman enough. If I can really play tough with whips and cuffs! I ask you how? Cause this is my body? What more can a woman define being a woman? I then realise the misconception. Try give you direction, but your minds path is too narrow, filled with ***** ***** and lubes! Reluctant to teach a head with no backbone, I smile:) you then begin again. You tell me that that smile you have, is worth a million rands, you tell me my curves don't lie, that could handle me right? you tell me about the bed, the floor, the kitchen counter, you define me by how many rounds I can encounter! This is my body..how dare you try you undress me? How dare you define my womanhood out of desperate needs? You terminate my soul and don't bother to ask more. You say thanx like I did a good job. For watering your ego and moaning your insecurities away. Respect my body sir. Then ill Salute you.

2

For 21 days I saw changes wrought by the freedom of 22 years Secrets of razor wire straight and taut Speak of those who continue to fear I saw nature’s beauty in land and face As black heel continues to rise Via school, ambition they prep for the race Even as secretly despised What’s changed in Soweto? I did not live But photos and newsreels survive Pictures of shanties bulldozed to give Whites room to extend their hives Now malls; monuments to white retail Built on Mandiba’s words Polished chrome and marble hail “Happy” workers in a black-faced world Monuments ringed with vendors tribal Carved goods for sale and cheap The rands they make do not rival What multi-nationals’ continue to reap Happiness is shallow until sundown When the curtain of decorum lifts Showing reality’s new shanty-town Where space and plumbing are gifts I wonder if He would be okay Seeing his people so used As pawns for labor with little say As black is seldom excused The young know the time is now As old hatred’s in shallow graves To be unearthed by book and plow Keeping dreams from stunting and fade

0

Oct 12, 2016

Oct 12, 2016 at 8:48 AM UTC

gwen-davis-feldman

SOUTH AFRICA - POST APARTHEID

For 21 days I saw changes wrought by the freedom of 22 years Secrets of razor wire straight and taut Speak of those who continue to fear I saw nature’s beauty in land and face As black heel continues to rise Via school, ambition they prep for the race Even as secretly despised What’s changed in Soweto? I did not live But photos and newsreels survive Pictures of shanties bulldozed to give Whites room to extend their hives Now malls; monuments to white retail Built on Mandiba’s words Polished chrome and marble hail “Happy” workers in a black-faced world Monuments ringed with vendors tribal Carved goods for sale and cheap The rands they make do not rival What multi-nationals’ continue to reap Happiness is shallow until sundown When the curtain of decorum lifts Showing reality’s new shanty-town Where space and plumbing are gifts I wonder if He would be okay Seeing his people so used As pawns for labor with little say As black is seldom excused The young know the time is now As old hatred’s in shallow graves To be unearthed by book and plow Keeping dreams from stunting and fade

33

Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore — No doubt you have heard the name before — Was a boy who never would shut a door! The wind might whistle, the wind might roar, And teeth be aching and throats be sore, But still he never would shut the door. His father would beg, his mother implore, 'Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore, We really do wish you would shut the door!' Their hands they wrung, their hair they tore; But Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore Was deaf as the buoy out at the Nore. When he walked forth the folks would roar, 'Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore, Why don't you think to shut the door?' They rigged up a Shutter with sail and oar, And threatened to pack off Gustavus Gore On a voyage of penance to Singapore. But he begged for mercy and said, 'No more! Pray do not send me to Singapore On a Shutter, and then I will shut the door!' 'You will?' said his parents; 'then keep on shore! But mind you do! For the plague is sore Of a fellow that never will shut the door, Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore!'

0

Dec 12, 2013

Dec 12, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC

gitacharya-vedala-1

Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore by William Brighty Rands

Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore — No doubt you have heard the name before — Was a boy who never would shut a door! The wind might whistle, the wind might roar, And teeth be aching and throats be sore, But still he never would shut the door. His father would beg, his mother implore, 'Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore, We really do wish you would shut the door!' Their hands they wrung, their hair they tore; But Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore Was deaf as the buoy out at the Nore. When he walked forth the folks would roar, 'Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore, Why don't you think to shut the door?' They rigged up a Shutter with sail and oar, And threatened to pack off Gustavus Gore On a voyage of penance to Singapore. But he begged for mercy and said, 'No more! Pray do not send me to Singapore On a Shutter, and then I will shut the door!' 'You will?' said his parents; 'then keep on shore! But mind you do! For the plague is sore Of a fellow that never will shut the door, Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore!'

25

I am from a dreamland. My great land was diverse yet so grand as the food and words were never bland. The hands were rich with bands and rands, built from working the same ground upon which we stand. I am from a home that once spanned prosperity itself; such a lovely thing was a gift to our health. The sands, skies, and seas could even hold the Heavens. The trees used to dance in the breeze with ease. I am from a dwelling of past envy, but not of a hating feeling, in the purest form, this was just only beauty. But I am from broken societies. Our hearts were bled dry as we were taken overseas. We prayed, begged, cried why ever so loudly, but it was in vain. I am from a place where our veins still course with a saddened passion, as a lack of love is our new fashion. With sorrow, I am still from a life of death, as their malice has never left. Yet they still set us so carelessly upon the trees; despite our screams and pleas, we become the strangest fruits you have ever seen. We have no identity and we have no names. yet they still set us so harshly upon the pyre; the painful extermination of desire is a freedomless and killing fire. Even our look for love is seen as theft, and sadly, I am from where they even have my last breath.

0

Mar 30, 2021

Mar 30, 2021 at 12:26 PM UTC

DeVaughnStation

Noir Nature IV

I am from a dreamland. My great land was diverse yet so grand as the food and words were never bland. The hands were rich with bands and rands, built from working the same ground upon which we stand. I am from a home that once spanned prosperity itself; such a lovely thing was a gift to our health. The sands, skies, and seas could even hold the Heavens. The trees used to dance in the breeze with ease. I am from a dwelling of past envy, but not of a hating feeling, in the purest form, this was just only beauty. But I am from broken societies. Our hearts were bled dry as we were taken overseas. We prayed, begged, cried why ever so loudly, but it was in vain. I am from a place where our veins still course with a saddened passion, as a lack of love is our new fashion. With sorrow, I am still from a life of death, as their malice has never left. Yet they still set us so carelessly upon the trees; despite our screams and pleas, we become the strangest fruits you have ever seen. We have no identity and we have no names. yet they still set us so harshly upon the pyre; the painful extermination of desire is a freedomless and killing fire. Even our look for love is seen as theft, and sadly, I am from where they even have my last breath.

32

I leave in a hood where gun shots have become music to our ears. It goes like "bang-bang" We know its an alert that we are one short... I live in a hood where blood has Become the painting of street art... Its like we lose to gain... I live in a hood where underground kings have become the pimps of all clit's.. Its like "aaah-aaah" Yeah ***** you gon' be ****** for A ***** to gain rands... I like in a hood where knives have become friends with underskin.. Its like knives have been glued into pockets... So welcome to my hood...

0

Jul 6, 2015

Jul 6, 2015 at 4:50 PM UTC

UzileUzzieMazaleni

Untitled

I leave in a hood where gun shots have become music to our ears. It goes like "bang-bang" We know its an alert that we are one short... I live in a hood where blood has Become the painting of street art... Its like we lose to gain... I live in a hood where underground kings have become the pimps of all clit's.. Its like "aaah-aaah" Yeah ***** you gon' be ****** for A ***** to gain rands... I like in a hood where knives have become friends with underskin.. Its like knives have been glued into pockets... So welcome to my hood...

13

Flinger fargen Bo kindres parben den randf er morgen blenk ting er horfen JORP! Ein blaord fa Rands er yozard dentra parben bo floken wretha O borben er tien jorta

0

Apr 18, 2014

Apr 18, 2014 at 11:52 AM UTC

kimmie-johnson

Tower of Babble

Flinger fargen Bo kindres parben den randf er morgen blenk ting er horfen JORP! Ein blaord fa Rands er yozard dentra parben bo floken wretha O borben er tien jorta

8

I'm a giant surviving on scraps from smaller hands, an Atlas without a known purpose living amongst Noam Chomskies and Ayne Rands, scrounging around this philosophical symphony for somthing hidden in the slaughterhouse of lambs.

0

Aug 9, 2017

Aug 9, 2017 at 2:59 PM UTC

anthonyasylum

A Giant

I'm a giant surviving on scraps from smaller hands, an Atlas without a known purpose living amongst Noam Chomskies and Ayne Rands, scrounging around this philosophical symphony for somthing hidden in the slaughterhouse of lambs.

1

All my friends are dead All my fans are red All the rands are bled All amends are dread All my trends are read… All my plans ahead.

0

Mar 20, 2018

Mar 20, 2018 at 7:35 AM UTC

KABELO_Maverick_MOTSEPE

Dead Ahead

All my friends are dead All my fans are red All the rands are bled All amends are dread All my trends are read… All my plans ahead.

6