Marked (Poem)

They say they want to sever my tongue
Fling a rope around my neck and let me hang
Or maybe like Lumumba they’ll dissolve me in acid
But their threats I don’t take as I remain placid
To the gallows they want to send me
For in their evil hearts they believe I’m too free
They label me a scoundrel whose mind is unfit
And that on my grave they will spit
My writings they condemn as insanity posing as poetry
In the world they say I don’t belong, let alone in the cemetery
They say my thoughts and utterances are poison to the masses
And so they scatter all my classes
Like vampires my blood they yearn to spill
As they subterfuge as messengers doing God’ will
But on their faces I see the mark of the beast
And on my soul and those of my people they want to feast

The Moon Has Eyes/Poetic Meditations on sale during Poetry Festival

The Maun International Poetry Festival 2012 is back in full force! The new dates are May 25^th and 26^th 2012. With an entrance ticket costing only P200, the poetry lover is guaranteed a treat from Africa’s crème de la crème of poetry. Poets and performers from Botswana, South Africa, Zimbabwe, Burundi, Democratic Republic of Congo and other African countries.

My book, The Moon Has Eyes and Other Stories from Pentagon Publishers will be available for sale during the festival. Also available will be my long awaited poetry album Poetic Meditations from Wired Productions. More details on these products to follow soon.

Earth's Angel (1-5)

Earth’s Angel (Poem 1)

A gentle breeze whizzes by
Somewhat cold as it drifts to the sky
Yet warm in a little peculiar way
A soft whirlwind twirling up
Up and up and up it goes
Entangled within is a mosaic of words
Concealed amid an array of dry leaves
Fluttering like butterflies
Flip, flip goes their little delicate wings
Words spiral out
Displaying a chorus that echoes
And bangs against all four horizon
“I’ve come for my angel
And so I go with her
For angels don’t belong in earth”

Earth’s Angel (Poem 2)

Syrupy fragrance of your soul lingers in the air
thick and tangible with eminences so rare
opaque clouds dissipate in honour of your arrival
like enemies scattering off, dashing for survival
a dazzling smile adorns your little, unblemished face
and here you are, embraced in eternal grace
majestic , royal, splendid in all ways
as heavens open up, the earth will miss you – always
but in mighty hands, our angel, you sit
and us, mere flesh and bone, need not worry a bit
rivers of our tears will soon turn to paroxysms of joy
for we know that in that holy place, our angel, is where you most enjoy

Earth’s Angel (Poem 3)

Ripples from River Thamalakane shine under the glorious sun
Glancing up and another euphoric game has begun
With the heavenly skies the waters chat
A tete-a-tete, a this and that
Waters stick up the finger and point to the sky
Heavens grin and whisper ‘don’t you dare try’
On behalf of the earth the waters cry
The river mourns and asks, ‘but why?’
Minus our angel all rivers will run dry
Heavens bellow in a grand command
Ordering the rivers of the earth to withstand
To withstand all that comes from above
For your angel has turned into a mystic dove
Flew away to a land of eternal peace
So I tell you, don’t cry, please

Yaone – Earth’s Angel (Poem 4)

Saccharine is the atmosphere so reminiscent of a dream
Against the black sky the moon and the stars they gleam
Gleaming in the dark yet the sun continues to shine
Casting illuminations of hope even when all doesn’t seem fine
Like spectators in a soccer game the heavens blow trumpets
And down here we dance to the songs of crickets
Rains fall to wash away our sorrow
And indeed there shall be a better tomorrow
Our pains, our tears, only God will soothe  
Surely today we now know the truth
We rejoice for you were taken in your utmost purity
To a home where you dwell in omnipotent security   

Earth’s Angel (Poem 5)

Your little footprints leave marks on the clouds
As you run jubilantly about and around
Springing up and down in a jumping castle
A jumping castle in a holy castle of eternal peace and joy
The sound of your laughter reverberates in your vicinity
Like the giggle of tiny golden bell
You spread your wings wide
Playfully hovering in the air
Teasing butterflies that festoon your presence
Wow, how beautiful and contented you look
Who’d ever guessed that in this place is where you belong
Send us your photos, our angel
For we yearn to steal a glimpse of that glorious place
A place where you wine and dine  in sheer saintliness
Your soul now lives eternally
For surely God led your way

My Antidote

 A great escapism from reality. That’s what this novel, The Kite Runner, is giving me right now. It’s been sitting in my bookshelf for ages and it’s only now that I’m devouring it. A friend gave it as a present, or rather, a souvenir. And I think about her now. I love novels because they transport me into a world distant from the one I live in. The world I live in is harsh. It doesn’t compromise. It can chew you and spit you out like sweet-less gum. Now I read this book and I’m in space, piloting my own UFO. I feel omnipotent and untouchable. I feel like God, hovering over the lives of characters, knowing what they do, what they think, what they dream. It’s a lovely feeling. This novel is my antidote. It’s a drug that sedates my pain and washes away my sorrow – even if it’s only for a while.  

Truth Hurts

“I’m lost in a snowstorm. The wind shrieks, blows stinging sheets of snow into my eyes. I stagger through layers of shifting white. I call for help but the wind drowns my cries. I fall and lie panting on the snow, lost in the white, the wind wailing in my ears. I watch the snow erase my fresh footprints. ‘I’m a ghost now’, I think, ‘a ghost with no footprints’.” Extract from ‘The Kite Runner,’ a novel by Khaled Hosseini.

I’m reading this book now, and there’s one vital lesson I just learnt; ‘Better to get hurt by the truth than comforted with a lie.’ It amazes me how Khaled’s very first novel could be so powerful.  Truth indeed, can hurt. But the pain wears off with time. A lie, no matter how comfortable it is, will shatter you big time the moment it's revealed. Big up to Khaled for such a gripping and inspiring tale.

Where is the Love?

How, really, can one identify true love when lust and infatuation masquerade as love? Genuine love can’t be shown merely through chocolates or roses or material possessions. It can’t be attained through lust and copulation. Love has true values. Love is wonderful. Its kind and patient. Its attributes are admirable. What plagues us these days is not love. We are infested by Hollywood’s notion of love – lust and sex. We have forgotten – no, not forgotten – we don’t know love. It’s difficult, therefore, to experience bona fide love. As a result we are misguided. Authentic love can’t and won’t lead you astray. Love is simply sweet. I love love. But where is my love? Where is my love in this whirlwind of confusion?

Remembering Phillis Wheatley

Our Black History month just ended. But Black History scroll is long - longer than time itself. Today I reminisce over the life of Phillis Wheatley. History says she was born somewhere in the Gambia, or perhaps Senegal, in 1753. She was sold to slavery (yeah, heck!) at the age of seven (7). That’s how young she was when she was packaged and sailed across waters to the Americas in a slave ship called ‘The Phillis.’ Phillis Wheatley isn’t, of course, her birth name. Wheatley comes from her slave masters’ name who named her after the ship on which she was brought to them. The name her mother gave her remained in West Africa – in tongues and memories of her family.  Phillis became a poet. Yes, she wrote poetry and became the first black person to be published. It wasn’t easy, but she did it, despite the hash slavery circumstances. Somehow, she was laying the first slate that would pave way to a string of black writers of later years. We writers of today, published and unpublished, established and aspiring, are standing on foundations laid by Phillis Wheatley.  We need to strive to make it in the rather hash and cruel conditions we sometimes find ourselves entangled within. I, for one, will write. I will write zillions of words. I will write until my computer runs out of pages. The coroner will find ink in my veins and blood on my computer keys.