The Ghost by Bhekumusa Moyo

Image - happydarkgirls.blogspot.com

I don’t even know her
she is here though,
like a ghost-
She haunts the whole me
like a blanket,
she envelops all my fears
like a thief,
she enclosed my heart
no, I am left in hope,
the thief will be caught
and I will be me again.
I hallucinate,
in fear,
in joy,
in anticipation,
in passion,
and hope that
we will fit together
like a Christmas dress
and shine like the morning star
fly to somewhere far
like a fairytale
kiss and hug
ignoring the whole world
until-until-until-------
no!!!!! It mustn’t end.
I don’t even know her
she is here though,

Zabalaza by Zibusiso Mpofu

Photo by Mgcini Nyoni

 

That bloody chicken bus

A sight for sore eyes

An unneccesary affliction

A disgraceful reflection

Into past lives and their memories

That sordid affair of

Tyrannical cruelty

That hackels my countenance from side to side

Back and forth

To my grandfather 's place of sorjoun

That horrible affair of political dissatisfaction

My heart assumes pulputations

That damned chicken bus

That works up red earth

Into a colourful story

Memories of painful foot joints

And back aches

''This is what our fore fathers died for''

May you and I be blessed with their fruitful spirit

To rise and throw

That ugly chicken bus

A sight for sore eyes

A painful distraction

A reason to rise...

Jacaranda Solitude by Frank Malaba

Image - marikenya.com

Streets paved with gold seeking shuffling feet of old.
Me a little peasant boy,
Walking in the rain with no hand to hold.
Jacaranda trees dangle their lilac bells of royalty and
Sprinkle me into oblivion with their golden confetti of pollen.

Blue headed geckos, like miniature dinosaurs cling
To tree barks and steal nanosecond glances and make me
Feel like Gulliver in a modern Jurassic street.
I am happy, save for the occasional shots of solitude that
Sneak up on me to remind me of the many avenues like this
I have built many a papier-mâché memory on.

In the distance I can see the speedy bullets of kamikaze raindrops
Splashing into the thirsty red soil.
They conjure a red mist of dust that pirouettes its way into
My eyes like red ballerina child soldiers hell bent on bringing me
To my knees.
And yet I keep walking, breathing and shuffling my peasant feet
To get home.

These golden streets, so uninviting, forget that
It was the crusty hand of my father that
Polished them to their now acclaimed glory.
Oh how quickly the gold forgets its buffer in
Its time of shimmer!

My mittens choke my hands so that I silently scream
Inside my head and peel them off so my palms can breathe.
I look at my hands.
Are they to be vouchsafed of royalty?
And yet it does not matter for I am content
To walk the streets where you trod
To pave a way for my dainty feet so I could walk home and
Rest my weary frame before facing the world again tomorrow.

Secrets Of My Heart by Emelda Makamba

Image - quiteoh.wordpress.com

Shadows fill an empty heart

As love is fading,

From all the things that we are

But are not saying

Can we see beyond the stars

And make it to the dawn?

It felt like spring time on this February morning

In a courtyard birds were singing your praise

I’m still recalling things you said to make me feel alright

I carried them with me today

I don't know where this road is going to lead me

But I'm hoping that with you I can make it through

I've had enough of this life to lead me

Right up to the edge of the world I knew

I'll be loving your light

Till it fades away

Tell the world I know

Because it will never change

If something feels so right

Just can't turn the page

There's too much to lose

We're just passing through

Shadows fill an empty heart

As love is fading,

From all the things that we are

But are not saying

Can we see beyond the stars

And make it to the dawn?

Mixed Couple on the Morning Train by Donal Mahoney

Chicago, 2009
 
Because he works in an office and is white
and because she who tans anyway has just
returned from a week at the Beach,
the commuters are certain she’s not black
yet they rustle in their seats.
They want to see her hands flick.
They want to see if rivers run dark
through ivory palms.
Martin may be dead
and Obama may have won
but in Chicago this morning at dawn
a rainbow of people
still rustle in their seats.
 
 

A Patriarchally Deteriorating Company Versus "Don't Go Policy" by Sarah Gamutan

Image - justjaredjr.buzznet.com

 

Superiors stuck in corridors, half blind to us

wee subservient women - true, weird. So, they

suck fries in their mouths and put some locks

on the door, as if they are hard to reach? Some

documents signed and all I see is crevice. Gag.

I always say no. Floors which are of the same

color are only cleaned by company's old vacuum.

We are like slugs crawling on the floor of red carpet

which turns from puce to bloody red when we jester

like baby dinosaurs knocking on their doors and

grabbing their shirts named after our superhero.

We hope our boss doesn't lose his normative

characteristics so he can still sign autographs

to us fanatics of his piggy swagger and smirk.

Fine. I want to include my daughter to our street

protest. At times, we need some man in the house.

Being An Artist by Mgcini Nyoni

I perform with broken ribs
caught up in a sugar stampede
Bruised by baton sticks
stomped by booted feet
A running nose

remnants of teargas

in my nasal passages
I stand on shaky feet
having walked into town
A crowded bus for the return journey
Buttocks of someone's wife against my groin
I stand dizzy
A packet of maputi for lunch
The water is dirty
I have diarrhoea
I stink
Have learnt to bath with a liter of water
The smell of smoke
Cooking with a thorny bush fire
I stand here and talk about it
I will be accused of being an imperialist stooge
I need a bulletproof vest
They will graduate from baton sticks to guns.
After I am gone I won't rest
they will set up roadblocks
Harass the mourners
And ask ‘where is the police clearance?’
  
Previously published in the anthology FIRE IN THE SOUL: 100 poems for human rights by New Internationalist and Amnesty International.

Quincy, Illinois: 1962 by Donal Mahoney

Image - iharem.com

 long before Barack Obama

In 1962 my father toiled in Quincy,
two weeks, no more,
and saw no blacks except for
two young ladies
who moved like swans
busing dishes
in a farmer's cafeteria.

Daisy badges on their uniforms
announced their names,
their years of service.

He still remembers how
throughout his meal
he wanted to stand,
a stranger in a
seersucker suit,
and shout:

"How can you live here?
Where, except in church,
can you clap your hands
in emancipation?"

I Guess It Was Me by Raylton Nhau

Image - madamenoire.com

It maybe me, but that l doubt

 It is not me who sang that song; it was the song that made me sing

 It was not me who said those words, but it’s the thoughts l had bottled inside me

 It still is not me who was there; it is me who only stood up to myself

 It still is not me who had that shadow but rather it is the shadow that had me.

Trust me it wasn`t me.

 It is not me but it`s the life l share with myself

 It is not me who ponder with my thoughts but it’s the thoughts which take me yonder

 It wasn`t me who came there but my nobility took me there

 Oh that, that l did not say to you, it just came out of my mouth

 The smile, it wasn`t me who flashed that smile, for it takes more muscles to smile than to frown

 Then it wasn`t me who was there.

 It’s not me who stood there & made you smile

 For my presence does not put a smile on any face

 It was not me who came and you talked to

 It is the man l hope to be one day

 It maybe me, but me, that l doubt

 It was not me but maybe something inside me..............

 The song l sang came from within

The words simply came from my heart

 Those thoughts are of the people l love the most

 There l stood to be by your side

Oh that shadow, it always keeps me company

The memories make my tears fall like trickles of water

 And the nobility defines me

 That smile l am always afraid to flash to you

For my presence means a lot to you

 But .........., l am afraid to accept the man l am

I GUESS IT WAS ME

The CSOs Consultative Meeting by Mgcini Nyoni

Image - oaklandnorth.net

Half were on Facebook

a quarter were asleep

the rest were feigning alertness

whilst waiting for tea break

The ones on Facebook

and the ones sleeping

were also waiting for tea break.

The Ruling Party's Final Congress by Bhekumusa Moyo

Image - flickr.com

Dear Comrades

Welcome to our congress

We are not here to impress

As in order of introductions

Not the list of sanctions

Here there are dogs,

Chickens and pigs

Elephants, awls, lions and you

Yes, you

Dogs have no respect

They bark at our esteemed visitors

Bite our private partners

They fuck in public

They leak the dirt of other dogs

They find joy in eating leftovers