Poetry Bulawayo

The blessed have no lips and tongues and never get misquoted If they use signs They are quickly forgiven For each gathering is a minefield Each question a booby-trap, As manna falls from wrong heaven Blessed are the blind, As judgement is not by sight They think all are beautiful And don’t judge by height Although they doubt, if friend didn’t grab double-portion Of that sweetest cake The blessed lived among scorpions And got wisdom in time Not to lead or follow To ditch the sight and fright Sting and bite, backbite called sting Whether friend or foe They surely learn to fly Blessed are the dump, the daft For they are last to know Who laughed at, or with them They surely inhabit their own heaven And piece-meal, they gather their pieces of peace Unaware of the toxic artwork, Scribed on backs of their jackets As   they sat and drool The blessed are drunk with patience Giggling in pain when hope is abused, and scream with joy Collecting ...

  From shimmering oil of ebony still will come flailing of limbs will come hacking quick slashing of hands now untied tattooing no pattern not even a maze depriving gray walls of their stone will come spittle wild churning rivers agush from slack jaws of blanching gray hounds till one day at dawn  will come quiet