An ISIS Nursery Rhyme by Donal Mahoney

 

Image - www.recordedfuture.com

Listen, young lady,

this is the man 

who will cut off your legs

and this is the man 

who will cut off your arms

and this is the man

who will cut off your head

if you fail to tell us where  

your parents hid the gold.

Had we known about the gold,

they’d be here, not over there

in chunks, baking in the sun.

Tears Of My African Mother by Derby Bheta

These are tears of my African mother

And its colour that shows all her fears

She still hopes the darkness will clear

Divorced by life now married to poverty

One’s a wife now just a nobody

At night she cries inside

I hear her cries as I sleep

In the morning she puts a beautiful smile to the world

But deep down I know all those glitters are not gold

The Months by JD DeHart

The months came by the visit,

June with her sunny disposition

and April with her warming charm.

December was silent and deadly,

as usual.

August was barely dressed

and October wore his favorite

costume, munching on candy.

The evening came and they swept

away to set the rest of the year’s

gradual time.

Two Flying Saucers by Donal Mahoney

A flying saucer whirrs 

through the kitchen air

almost hits him in the head

flies out the open window

followed by another saucer

sailed at him by her 

angry that he's earthbound

can't take her to the moon

one more time tonight.

He's getting old, he tells her.

She should have come aboard

when he was 23 and flew

all night from star to star.

He ducks again and gasps,

"Once must now suffice."

New Girl by Tinashe Tafirenyika

Madam says to always keep your eyes open
Stare at the ceiling
Don't look into his eyes
Wear black panties
Lace is very pretty
But it tears easy
Some nights get real busy
But you look like a clever girl,
You'll catch on quickly

Same Old Story by Donal Mahoney

When Martha gets home from 

cooking class this afternoon,

Martin will be gone 

after 30 years of marriage.

Martha won't know why

but it's the same old story

another woman

this one young and beautiful

but deaf and mute as well

a woman Martin likes 

because her body speaks 

a language of its own

a woman who stays home

unless Martin chooses

to walk her 

along with his dog, Sparky,

an old sheepdog his wife 

gave him as a pup.

Terebinth by JD DeHart

Isaiah wrote about the stump

Left behind in the world

After the sweep of judgment fell

The oak and the terebinth remain

The sawed tree leaves a pattern

Ridges and narrow passageways

You could trace a star with

Its end a raw, gnarled appendage

Isaiah wrote about the ravaged

Field and ruin, while juxtaposed

With the remainders, the seed

The excerpt implies a peace

Larger than truth, that even when

Broken and crumbling, twisted

There is a small grain of hope

It lies beneath the surface, small

Inclination of a behemoth below

Blessing is a small wordless child

Sitting amid the curses and fears.

The Monthly Dues by Natasha Chebet Mutai

The dark days have come!

When I dread to walk around,

In school I can’t keep up,

Those days make me sick!

The red liquid keeps flowing,

Why can’t I just stop it?

Surging pain in my abdomen,

Every single limb in me aches,

Yet I have to work and read!

Mama struggles for me,

Leather she borrows for my sake,

I sit on the damp soil till dawn,

Mama pities me, she cries for me,

And I along with her, will relief ever get here?

In school the students mock me,

I’m embarrassed, I’m ashamed,

This is too much - why me?

No tampon for me, no sanitary towel,

Nothing to shield me, to hide my shame! No one to protect me!

My heart aches for that day,

When I can dance through my cycle,

When checking becomes a vocabulary,

When the period of shame becomes the period of pride,

When my heart falls in line with natures phenomena!!!!!!

Music by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Victor Kunonga during Bulawayo Culture Festival 2013. Picture by Tswarelo Mothobe

If everyone could make music

then everyone would be a musician.

It is the finest of the arts.

So in tune with human desires, so emotive

when done right.

Music can move people like no other medium.

I wish I could make music.

All I have are these words.

And they will have

to do.

Polkadot Skirts by Zibusiso Mpofu

The last time I saw Sekai

She had dust on her feet and grasshoppers in her hand

She loved chasing dreams and always danced in the rain

Hoping, secretly, that her cynical and old great aunt wouldn't catch her

With her feet in the sun.

She had the heart of lion, used to go round places

Stealing mangoes into her old panties, and showing us the chocolates that her father

Sent to her,

''Where is he?'' we used to ask...''In the U.K'' she used answer simply

Nobody, but she and her cynical and old great aunt

Who had hair full of years and no teeth, knew where that was.

Sekai loved catching fireflies

That Was Before Her Father Took Her Across The Ocean

Now she wears polkadot skirts, and little polkdot tights

And talks in a tongue that her cynical and old great aunt can't understand

No one calls her Sekai anymore, but Sarah or Susan or something like that

And no...the girl in the polkadot skirt doesn't remember me at all.

Alone By DJ Tyrer

I sit alone

In a room filled with people

I cry alone

Amongst the hubbub and bustle

The Clown wipes a painted tear

From his eye

The clown lives solely to entertain

Watch him die

Death mocks him with his fixed smile

A crocodile grin

Death challenges the Clown to cards

Knowing he’ll win

The pale mask slips from his face

It reveals Truth

A child questions it all

Slay the youth

But I do not dare to do so

Nor does the Clown care to do so

One by one, they all file out

From the room, they all file out

Leaving me to sit alone

Leaving me to cry alone

A witness to something more than myself

Too preoccupied to see beyond myself

I sit alone

In a cold and empty room

I cry alone

Sitting, waiting for my final doom.

Romance in the Modern Age

Spread 'Em for Anyone Edna

had always had trouble with men.

It started in high school when Edna,

big for her age, hosted the soccer team,

one by one, provided they won.

Edna had strong school spirit 

but the players were not sportsmanlike, 

telling classmates Edna was a bad goalie.

She had let everyone in.

Edna's largesse continued in college 

with lanky lads on the tennis team.

Tennis players had more couth, she said,

and they certainly knew how to serve.

They would take Edna to dinner and a movie

and she would send them home smiling, 

victorious, three sets to none.

Then one Sunday morning

while home on vacation, 

Edna took Grandma to church, 

a place Edna had never been.

She found the preacher attractive.  

He stared at Edna throughout 

his fist-pounding sermon, 

fire raging, brimstone crackling.

That Sunday, Spread 'Em for Anyone Edna 

answered the altar call and was born again.

After seven abortions Edna decided 

to limit her kindness to one man, 

a dentist named Dr. Throckmorton,

a renowned specialist in root canals,

a wealthy man she would eventually marry.

She admired his technique with a drill.