Saturday, July 30, 2011

A Stranger's Picture by Gareth Tembo

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A flush flood carried
This picture here, now half buried
Corrupted color, soiled but a treasure
In this moment I wonder about a stranger

Dead or alive? I don’t even know that much
Could have been thrown away in drunken rage by a failed lover
Or thrown out of a wallet, stolen by a pick pocket in a rush.
Stolen by the wind perhaps to parade wonder
Or in teary lack of courage to tear it
An image of a happier times, with one departed

Is this that one whose rumors I chanced?
That one who had an affair
Or that one now in jail
Or that one who killed a girl

Is this that one now in a wheel chair
That one bewitched
That one who had become rich
Is this the picture then
Used to bewitch them?

Thursday, July 28, 2011

Am An Individualist by Loice Majora

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 I am and individualist, a lover of nature
I like to gravitate and settle towards
what rightfully and strongly attracts me,
were the truth is better than a make believe.

I do not need to be in a desperate haste,
were some succeed in desperate enterprises.
I don’t need the hectic soup, with ingredients of imperfect,
that inflames the tinder of a mortal brain.

I am an individualist,
curved by troublesome insistence and conscience.
with pain shall I erect a heaven of blue glass over myself,
disposed to strive after perfection.

I am an individualist
mixed in the thrilling and glorious hours,
that surges my heart with surface feelings.
for no man looses on lower levels by magnanimity on a higher level.

I am an individualist
who passes invisible boundaries, were there is an incessant influx of novelty into the world.
Where the bottom is solid everywhere, were false finders find faults even in paradise.
I may not be extravagant enough and may not wonder enough,
beyond the narrow limits of my daily experiences.

I am an individualist
whose exotic doctrines in foreign minds,
are bound sporadically by their codes.
To confess their griefs moderately, through infirmity of natures

I am an individualist
were a smile can be stitched, were no fatal faults of mine found,
when I chiefly fear for my expressions, it is near the bone were life is the sweetest.
I mean my life and live it, I don’t call it names or shun it,
to clear ancient harmonies.