The Wailing Guitar
Savoured roots at the tip of a spade
Dying leaves escape their own tree’s shade
We’re in a draught, spare me your tears
Unless you’re a portfolio full of shares
The land is levelled by green boots
Their orders given by black suits
Does anyone know who invented the book?
The written word whose hand knowledge shook?
I'm the wailing guitar's disconnected speaker
The cure found in the slip of a broken glass beaker
The trillions locked away in a vault of greed
The billions our fear safely breeds
I'm surrounded by a heat of hatred
My peaceful world's smouldering and defeated
Deep in lack of love's crippling frustration
Sunny days clouded in cold perspiration
Life is crawling down the barrel of a gun
In the firing line of death rays escaping the sun
I count my enemies in each empty shell
I pick it up to glimpse down the bottom of hell
I'm seen in forgotten memory
A lost entry in a 1939 Nazi diary
Left out to wet and dry like an old newspaper
Let me fly this wind fate's prepared proper
I was searching for peace and quiet
I couldn't afford to pay a requested quote
So I live up the slippery walls of a bleeding nose
Along the ear channel’s tunnelled noise
I hear whispered dark secrets
Confessions and prayers hummed and sacred
Shouted insults and empty threats
The clearing and swallow of a dry throat
Thabang J. Ngoma
13-12-2015
John lawless’s Where Echoes Hide - Poetry Contest
Copyright © Thabang Ngoma | Year Posted 2015
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