Millard Lowe Poet Prose Poetry

Cry the Beloved Contenent

CRY THE BELOVED CONTINENT…
     (Apropos The Ripping Veil of Pan-Africanism)

In all her blackness
her soils run red
with the blood of her children

Whose bloated bellies
mock the pregnancy
of liberty

And her breasts
sag in union
with faces 
of hopeless hopefulness;

While hollowed eyes 
of mourners
gaze into the wholeness
of nothing---

Smiling death stalks
the narrowing corridors of
life---echoing souring laughs
to virgin wombs
screaming from the shadows
of the valley of death:

But believe brethren---
mock not the gods---
keep plodding;
for in the theism 
of this imposed dystopia, 
a wretched mother
tenaciously clings to time
and history.

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Emile Pinet February 18, 2015 at 12:24 PM Your words define the heart of good poetry. Excellence in substance and delivery. Emile.