African Poems - Poems about African

I AM A MOVING SPIRIT OF WELL-BEING DANCING IN THE MELODY OF MY OWN SONG....

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A stranger among strangers, when the poet stands apart, He poses a threat to the future. You were here; I was there, healing the world with our prayers and lyrics. This is no mere nightmare. the world that shuns a poet sends them into oblivion— just another...

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LET’S KEEP OUR LIBERATING CUPS OVERFLOWING (Apropos Of Ancestral Cup And Saucer Ways) It has been said that justice Is getting what you deserve: The gift of grace, given priceless, Flowing from God’s sacred reserve:- Curiously, I asked Papa one day, Why does he drink his coffee from the cup? Always pouring mine into his saucer; And here is what, to me, he...

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What became of the elderly man who habitually lingered outside the pub, a toothpick perpetually perched between his lips? I often pondered the significance of that toothpick—it seemed to serve as a silent emblem, a mysterious token of his unspoken thoughts. As children, we absorb the world around us, processing our myriad experiences as we grow....

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I am completely detached from that situation. I did not play any role in creating the issue at hand. My focus today is solely on discovering a viable solution. Why is there such a tendency to place all the blame on artificial intelligence? In reality, AI empowers us, providing both confidence and clarity as we craft...

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Yours truly like most every hominid linkedin... to genus and species of *****sapiens, (who trod across oblate spheroid since time immemorial as well as other simians - classed as naked apes - and now I enclose a bit of esoteric trivia, whereby chimpanzee and the bonobo our closest living relatives share a surprisingly high percentage of their DNA with humans, estimated to be around 98.7-98.8%) seek...

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Anmweyyy, anmweyyy Everybody is destroying Haiti Please stop, stop, quit. At last, give the country A break, a rich season. There are too many bandits, vandals Too many lootings, thefts, too many crises and scandals On this impoverished and exploited island Give Hayti a chance to live better. Give our land A break with too much violence and injustice Ayiti needs peace, love...

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A mother's love is so deep and real, it never shall fades, She holds her child day and night, no matter what may happen there. She smiles throughout she's crying and hides her miseries with grace, So her dear child perceive only happiness on her face. She spends her time, her care, her touch, She never expects a thing, though...

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They called it progress But the last time I checked Progress can't exist without justice Especially when we still can't breathe even in the afterlife But we will always scream No justice, no peace We can't be silenced Even if we have to use violence You see the politicians using our graves To boost their campaigns 'Forgetting' to mention our names Then Simultaneously putting the blame On...

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sky glows cloudy bright edges of clouds melt away elegant exit teach those clouds lesson Helios god of the sun everlasting warmth shine your brilliance upon us that we might see night has stayed too long playing hard to get overcast like wet cotton put my prayer to shame or get better gods Uranus might help me out turn this day around ...

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We live in such a diverse, multicultural world Yet I have to ask why Black History isn't taught What is it about the black culture that mankind Refuse to educate, elaborate, reveal, and expose Black history is like taboo, no one wants to speak or preach I often wonder what the men of old said about the first men...

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They reside on the other side. They bathe in fertility. They own yard-keepers and servants; Dogs, cats and charming plants. They breathe the camphorated air like us, Swallow the transparent dust, Cross over and fall in the muddy rivers Like our siblings living under the tiny tents. They reside on the other side of town, Over the mountains. They bathe in tranquil fertility Of the country-side. They...

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. but it weren't ...

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Great American Literature Our bookshelf groaned under the weight of American Literature, and my mother was principally a communist. An American Tragedy, I read at fourteen, and my fascination with A Bridge over San Louis Ray was endless, and so it went on. I joined the youth wing of the communist party of Norway, it lasted a month; they kicked me out I knew...

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I wonder if Pops will lie out in his trademark bell-bottoms—faded denim flares that split the air like his cool, bending time, making room for his strut as if the horizon would yield to his next step. He sported them tightly creased—dividing time into his own image and fashioning it into a tailored jacket. Double-breasted pinstripe...

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