Once, We Were Still Black by Tswarelo Mothobe

Image - 2morecents.wordpress.com

Once,

Somewhere in the loss of true memory

Our black was beautiful

You must remember US,

When being black was the most vivid of dreams

Raindrops wetting to life those landscapes within

An idea brightest in the blackest of times

Because it was then, that point of creation

And then light

Now being black is a nightmare

A lonesome memory trapped in third world politics

Education systems that blind our ability to dream

Arrested development as we slave in modern day plantations

Structured to seem to mind as our salvation

A nightmare from which if we sleep

We may never awake

Black was a feeling once

A mood dressed in the most moving of music

When drums would sound the pulse pace of warriors

Mbiras the guidance of those alive within us

When the most eloquent of tongues exhaled words to life

A young man’s guitar

Would sound to the Heartbeat of the most virtuous sister

As they moved within the rhythm of love

A most sensual dance

A most intimate of refrains

Skins glistening with wetness

Black was passion being born

With Primrose's Permission by Clemence Chinyani

I will as I promised,
Attach your poetry to a kite,
And let it out of the window,
... ... So it soars, high above our heads.

I shall,
As I promised, you my little cousin,
Paint it bright, your poetry,
So that we will gaze at it,
Floating in the sky,
And we will also be seeing,
Beyond it,
The blue sky,
Where the heavens are,
Where eagles play,
And swallows fly.

I shall,
Dear young Primrose,
Fly it on a bright and sunny day,
When everyone can breathe,
The crystal clear morning air,
And see the sun shine,
As brilliant as it could.

I will fly your poetry,
On Christmas day,
Maybe it will snow,
Or it may rain,
Whatever the weather's mood,
I shall fly it out,
Bright and happy lines,
Smiling onto our faces,
Celebrating the birth of a baby king,
And you my cousin shall smile,
Together with a million other smiles,
Oh what a happy day?
To see the works of your hand,
Floating in the works of the Creator's hand,
And then we shall sing,
A happy good old song,
And sit by the sun,
Or by the fire grate,
Depending on the outside,
And tell happy old happy stories.

I promised Primrose,
I will do it,
This be, my second promise,
God willing your heart will be soon soaring,
With your lovely rhymes and verses,
And that lazy attempt at Haiku,
But you sure tried and I'm proud of you,
Wishing you blessings,
And the best of everything,

I love you Primrose,
And your poetry I shall tie to a kite,
And let it rise freely to the sky,
To the hills yonder, and maybe across that river,
It will fly on and on
And till it touches the horizon,
And maybe, as I wish,
The heavens.

Beautiful Venting... by Zibusiso Mpofu

Photo by Mgcini Nyoni

As the dollar rises
Each day
I count the rays of the sun
Piercing my grouchy skin
To blackness it has never before seen
As the dollar rises
Each day so do my hopes and dreams
Dreams of a proper meal
A day
A slice of bread, with the
Morning rain
And morning tea
In a fragile cup of porcelain frivolity
Yes, a proper dream
Of a hope for my children’s children...
As the dollar rises
Each day
I do dream of a cool day
Of morning dew touching my clear skin
As the morning rain
Pit-Patters on the little horizon
A proper dream
A slice a day
A hope for my children 's children
Just a proper dream.