Poetic Justice by Ignatious Chiveso

Word, her words

Fall so strong, like the hummer,

Judge’s stamp of justice

So smooth at times

Whipped cream

Fluffy on my tongue

I hear her rhyme

Poesy, music I hear

When she speak...

I have learnt

Without success to live without

The sound of her laughter

That naughty smile

Childish even,

The many times

Down memory lane

We would travel, releasing

The young us..

Oh, how I gravely miss

That warm giddy feeling

Anticipation, anxiety even

The feeling of meeting

The feeling of reconnecting,

The music she would evoke

The rhythm of feeling...

Sensuous tones

Of words unspoken

The very thought

Of meeting her the morrow

She was, is my poem

She wrote the very words

Defined the stanza of my happiness

Without her, I’m but a prose

Words without music

A drama without rhythm and rhyme

How days could pass

Without the slightest notice

Without her

Am I stuck?

Love struck 

I’m immobile

She gave me motion

The drive to move mountains

Mountains of doubt, loneliness

Shove them in locomotion

Stumbling blocks in my tracks

The road that led me to her

She gave radiance to my world

The glitter to the pure waters of my love

The fragrance to the fields of flowers

The colour to the soft petals

The entice to the bees

Right the very core of me

She made me mad

With a gush of emotions

A rush of feelings

I was alive

I am Alive!

Sentenced to life

By the one who defines my joy,

Inspired into words

Definitions I turned into poetry

Weaved into music

With form, tone, and sound

The book of law

The podium

From which I draw strength

Armed to deliver justice

To loneliness, sadness and hurt

Stability from raging storms

I think I have found

My Poetic Justice...

Salute to the Forest by: Colleen Colkitt

Apply

lipstick and heels

and tease more than hair, watch

as she saunters into the dense

night woods

Last Night by Vokal DaPoet

Image - photographer unknown

Last night
last night I
last night I met
(how do I say this)
last night I met the devil
I said last night I met the devil
and he had tired of conversations
about convalescing economies and conspiracy theories
satanising religions and sanitising minds
by brandishing threats and excuses
in the defence of corrupt despotic African governments
and imperialistic European and American nations bent on taking over the continent
he had tired of speaking to a lesser pedigree of thinkers
for he was a genius
one who could write and rewrite the history of nations
front to back and back to front
in the movement of a woman he was watching
one with whom he was committing a lonely sin
with in his cranium
his hungry eyes tore her dress
which resembled an oversized t-shirt
accentuating her thighs and giving character to her hips
so his hand slithered into his pocket
to caress the crisp bank notes
he was whetting his appetite
savouring the moment
before he found his way to her side
his approach was methodical
and its execution clinical
as he cornered her with slurred pronouncements
before he took her to a gloomy corner at the back
he took her...
Last night I met the devil
and he was an artisan
in the art of intruding in other people's conversation
an annoying irritant who brought the kombi to silence...
Maybe he should have gone to the shebeen
where he would have been the darling of the shebeen queen
but his depleted paycheque would not allow him to do so
last night I met the devil
he had decided it was unreasonable to be reasonable
so he was trying to bring the door down with his fist
he truncated his wife's humble and sleepy greeting
with sjambok of accusations
allegations of infidelity and disrespect
before he marched into the candle lit gloom of his household
where he upset the furniture
which upset the neighbours
the upset furniture upset his feet
which buckled from under him to upset his stomach
which regurgitated the waters of delirium which threatened to drown him twice in one night
and he decided it  was reasonable to be unreasonable
so he lay in his vomit....
but this morning I met God
as I sat on my bed staring into the wardrobe mirror
he was looking sad and forlorn
embarrassed and shaking his head in shame
............damn!
I wish last night I had met God!

...this is 19 April 2011..by Tswarelo Mothobe

Your doors wide open with an embracing breast

Sat me in the discomfort of an unfulfilled reality

A nudging at my peace

Scotching in my emotion

A fruit hanging strangely off the branches of an unsuspecting tree

Dying (or are you just pulling my leg)

Dead, with a clear knowledge of the end

I asked once

Has it started again?

That journey whose end we all know at the beginning of every relationship

Has it started again?

Because,

I feel more afraid than free

More text book than me

I am ruin trapped within my ignoring my beckoning emotions

Whirling up into this frustration of unspoken word

I am logic ridiculed by this need

To respond to my heart but then again to my respect of you

I feel like a man grown old constantly looping in first grade

A hopeless romantic

 Prostitute

Biting her bottom lip in response to that need to get paid

An old soul in a new reality

Drops of rain in the lifeless limbo of the concrete jungle

A free man that just won’t leave the toiling at the plantation

Hating his each sweat on his brow

Hating even more, the urge to wipe it off

I seem unable to wake from this un-reality

Too real to conceal my fragile mediocrity

My steps are heavy

Walking down a road I have walked before

Reworking a formula that didn’t work previously

The answer being love in case you might question it

The question being you and my promise of the infinite

Did you truly have to touch my token?

Plant this idea in my conscience

To me,

Life is living it

Death is not

Denial is the premises and plots

And Love

 Love is calm in the face of death knowing we lived ours

But then again

“Ours” could just be this word in my mind

Inception