Best South Poems
Moonless Nights over South Sudan
heartless Moon, don’t tell me
that you weren’t looking
when soulless soldiers dragged me
from my mama’s terrified arms
in our village in Rubkona County
I know you covered your ears
so you wouldn’t hear
my screams piercing the fetid air
as those butchers dropped their pants
repeatedly ripping my body and soul apart
and I saw you cover your eyes
so blinded that you wouldn’t see
the stark horror reflected in my own eyes
the hot tears scorching my cheeks
sobbing for childhood forever lost
oh Mother Moon, Mother Moon
please cover your face
behind billowy black clouds
so that you can’t see
your daughter’s dejected, dead eyes
cowardly Moon, I forgive you
even after you turned your back on me
filling my days only with your dark side
as I sink deeper into a black hole
with no hope to guide me safely home
but helpless Moon, how can I blame you?
for you’re only a mere observer
powerless to defend me
feeling guilty for abandoning
your innocent children
Moon, you’ve witnessed it all before
the torn and bleeding
the tortured and maimed
all tied tightly to weeping trees
reeking of despair and pain
Moon, will you soon forget
my body dripping with bloody shame?
will anyone even remember me?
am I no one…with no name?
will you, Moon, mourn for me?
like you Moon, I am already ancient
over a millennium it seems
yearning for freedom…
waiting for death…
and I’m only twelve years old
Note: This piece is dedicated to all the women and young girls who have been abducted, raped, and/or killed in the secret rape camps in South Sudan over the past two years. According to a human rights investigator, many of them are held indefinitely, tied up with hundreds of other women in these camps and used as sex slaves. Those women who escape from the sex camps are the lucky ones.
09-29-2015
Contest: Must be Read
Sponsor: Silent One
Placement: 3rd
Listen to the jazz instrumentals of Masekela,
as you take red wine outside a thatched
shelter in a beach in the Western Cape.
Enjoy a hearty meal of bobotie (meatloaf),
chakalaka (a spicy vegetable relish),
tomato bredie (a lamb and tomato stew),
potbrood (pot bread),
melktert ( dessert)......
and other forms of cuisine;
have a siesta in the canvas tents,
then you visit the misty mountains
of the Magoebaskloof.
To feel at one with nature,
visit Limpopo, and get lost in the awesomeness
of sighting elephants, lions, rhinos.....
You'll see baobab trees stretching their branches
to the red, setting sun;
get dazzled by the Limpopo river's majestic
flow to the Indian Ocean.
Introduce yourself to all kinds of dialects and people;
Africans, Dutch, Indians, and Malaysians.
Watch their traditional dances,
and listen to their folklore - it will remind you
we are from the same Womb; Earth.
See Nelson Mandela in people's smiles and way
of doing things in the cities, streets, and towns.
Listen to South Africa's unifying anthem,
as you take a ship back home......
THE LATE HUMOROUS MANDELA
The late former President Nelson Mandela,
Was known as an extremely humorous fella,
A respected freedom fighter and leader,
Referred to her Majesty as Elizabeth, amusing many a reader.
ENTERED FOR EDUCATE ME WITH HUMOR – LEADER CLERIHEW POETRY CONTEST
24/1/2019
Dear fellow soup readers and judges. Having realized that line 4 did not adhere to competition rules I have edited and changed it.
Summer Nights in the South
Green fireflies blink in the quiet of night
and our sleeping old dog heaves a sigh.
Dreaming, she sprints through a youthful blue sky
chasing delicate clouds, cotton-white.
A red-sunset tanager* colors the warm air
from a perch in the majestic oak limbs above
professing by lullaby, sincerely devoted love,
like some sublimely recited evening prayer.
I lay back and smile, through the leaves, at the moon
to the sound of crops rippling in the breeze
thinking how precious are nights such as these
when alone, with the Earth I commune.
*Summer Tanagers (Piranga rubra) are native to the southern U.S. but are not true tanagers. They are actually members of the cardinal family.
08/01/15
Submission for Contest: Nature Poems Only
Hosted by: Shadow Hamilton
~South Florida~
(Free Flow )
The temperature is rising
We're in the hottest days of summer
Heat and humidity in the air are soaring
Sometimes for days the rains are just pouring
This is summer with all its days full of sun and fun
People strolls the beach, and swim far beyond the sand
Beachcombers spend there their time till the sun goes down
Surfing and sunbathing is all a big part of their fun
You see children running and playing
Some are so happy building sandcastles under the sun
There are people of all ages, sexes and shapes
Some are sitting, eating and laughing till the day is undone
These are the hottest days of summer right where I live here
Living in Florida for so many people can be a lot of fun all year.
Dorian Petersen Potter
aka ladydp2000
copyright@2005
May.03.2016
It ain't the pork, it ain't the beans
It ain't the mustard on saltines
It ain't the redneck social scenes
I love about the south
It ain't the ice cold sweet southern tea
It ain't the way that we say please
It ain't the way we lemon squeeze
I love about the south
It ain't the perfect slice of pecan pie
It ain't the wink in the bullfrog's eyes
It ain't the fireflies that light the night
I love about the south
It ain't the way we say yes ma'am
When you visit Alabam
It ain't the attitude of yes we can
I love about the south
It ain't the way that we say ya'll
With the syrupy sweet southern draw
No it ain't none of that at all
I love about the south
It's the crisp clear starry nights
Through the shifting shadows of the loblolly pine
As I stand here with your hand in mine
I love about the south
Just the fact that you are here
And that I can hold you near
As I hear you call me dear
I love about the south
I actually love everything about the South.....
South African lockdown
Gone is the heave, the bustle and the crowds
The pavements are weeping like widows without sounds
The governments are ruling with their heads in the clouds
We should not be submissive wearing fear as our shrouds
Shops and small business are collecting dust,
certain of finally all going bust.
Who then will take care of the poor and oppressed?
while the elite dressed in their opulence remain so blessed!
Lockdowns and spikes, confusion and fear
uncertainty, poverty, protest and crime become clear
stand on your balconies, porches or steps, shout out your anger at being so misled
don’t clap for key staff members but for your freedoms instead
What is the virus which has so much clout
We are starting to question it has left us in doubt
Fear is holding us hostage with dread
We need to be working as who buys the bread?
Ease off the peddle of this vicious control
you have each country stuck in a hole
We will not be silenced our voices will be heard
We will not go down without a fight this is absurd
Release these clasps
Remove these masks
We were born free as birds
Our anger is stirred our vision not blurred
Of course on this night we are supposed to be asleep so Santa
could come, but we hadn't been home from Midnight Mass very long, and the
invigorating cold was not conducive to sleep. Even the hot chocolate did not do
much to help sedate the excitement.
We were hoping for sleds that year. The snow was perfect for
sledding especially like we did it. We tied out sleds on behind the car or pick up
and were pulled through the hills. We got our sleds. My dad and my uncle made
them for us.
No television and only in the late years were we allowed to use the
radio. Batteries were to expensive for frivolous use. We spent many hours
playing cards or games.
I took time out and went to high school and college and got my
teaching certificate.
My aunt taught there only one year after the Federal Government
turned the schools over to the local government.
The last time I was back there the out buildings had been moved and
Indian families were living in them. The school was dirty and unkept.
Now the school is gone. The ancestors who once walked these
dusty plains are gone. The Indians who were there when I was a child are gone.
They are Ghosts. Ghosts whose faces can be seen in the clouds.
Ghosts who still chop wood on those sub zero nights. And the drums we heard
in the middle of the nights are still beating. They beat as strongly as the heart
beats in a healthy body. The laughter of the children still echoes under the
bridge.
The life blood of a culture, of a nation grows thin. The Battle of
Wounded Knee was the last battle to be fought between the white man and the
Indian on the northern plains. It's cries still echo across the land.
My foot prints in the creek did not last any longer than those they left
in the dust. But in my memories, this mile and a half by three quarter mile haven
still lives. And will live forever as a piece of unrecorded history.
c a n a d i a n
g e e s e
fly in v formation ~
s n o w f l a k e s
f a l l
Lets Get Creative With Haiku Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France
03/19/21
Someone had left a scarf from South Africa.
It was on the table - a square one.
A lion was looking out from it,
its teeth on show.
My plane hadn't left yet,
so my eyes were drawn to lion eyes,
and how it stared at me -
a visitor.
I had loved my holiday...
Why does a fortnight go like lightning?
I was a stranger all that time...
The lion knew.
It had been made in South Africa
on a loom in someone's bedroom,
but its eyes were the eyes of a real lion.
It wanted me to go.
---------------------------------------------
4/3/2017
Contest - A STUNNER 2017
Sponsor - Line Gauthier
2nd place win
Their hands raise with ours and for a moment we are all standing in perfect unity, every set of fingers curled in anger and defiance - and then they throw the tear gas.
Which is rich,
Because how many women have wept,
Sliding down their walls to their bedroom floor,
To their kitchen tiles,
To the post office pavement?
How many women have sobbed,
Clutching their daughter's body,
Trying to collect all of the broken pieces back into one person again,
The mother's tears, all of the nation's tears, spilling and seeping into the cracks of her skin
- how many more need to cry?
How much deeper does the blood have to scar the inside of her thighs,
Embed itself in newspaper ink,
Puddle and clot in the streets,
For you to see how the country is drowning?
How the river laps at our feet, our knees, up to her bruised wrists
Do you see your own fingertips dripping,
Or how his teeth are stained pink,
The iron on his breath a blunt tool he uses to deepen the crevices long carved into her?
No, of course, you do.
So what do you do about it?
Do you try to press your hands to the wound?
Hand him a life-sentence?
Or do you hand him a baton?
A badge?
Perhaps a can of teargas?
I was loving the sun,
Not consciously doing anything
My gourds hanging sweetly,
Too big to move much
Dancing with internal mirth
Because I was being picked today
It is always a relief to a calabash
When the pickers arrive
I heard laughter and stood a bit taller
Glad I could see farther than bushes
But no one showed, so I knew
It was not the pickers.
I sat back and enjoyed the
love of the sun a little longer,
excited the gourds would be going to new homes
today, knowing they would love
being bird houses and decorations
Feeling sad for the ones who
would be turned into tobacco pipes
They are all my children,
I want them all to
breathe and enjoy
the sun...
I
Wishes that you find peace, the Hebrew Shalom
For it includes well-being, being WHOLE-some
One need not have religion when one has Shalom
So my deepest desire this Covid year, for everyone
To heal by sharing how you love another, and pray:
For me and my ministry in Newtown, South Africa
Pray especially for women and children, gossiper
About abuses here, I have been, Not today
I just ask: Think of places of abject need - for "play"
That the Creator intended; relaxing in a healthy way
But lest I preach, I wish for more of your poetry about
Many, many poets know it their words lift HOPE out
From the morass Humans find themselves in
Then spend a little time 'fore and aft' Christmas, within
II
Ask oneself this: who puts first breath in newborns?
Or tells them to cry, or send lips after nipples?
If that's too elementary ask thyself: How do I blink
Who tells my eyelids to open, shut, dodge, avoid specks?
And as important, who BEATS MY HEART when I'm asleep?
Why does it not malfunction when I'm at rest, healthy,
Before I have contributed to the wear and tear?
Siblings, whoever and whatever set the planets in safe orbits
Needs a moment of reflection from you & me: with or without a Tree
South Of The (United States) Border...
(Reigns A Welter Of Disorder)
Caravans comprising multitudinous
peoples plodded a steady course
analogous to iron filings drawn by
strong magnetic force
gravitational pull generated
by North America
an irresistible source,
which tug felt
nearly all the way round
webbed wide world beckoning
for waves of humanity
figuratively donned as spawning fish,
toward which currently dimming
beacon of democracy flickr
Trump might extinguish
though tis quite heart
breaking to experience
vicariously as one collective soul,
these desperate folks
ambitious to seek asylum,
(and eventual citizenship),
while this "FAKE" president
invents many a...holy SMOKES
outrageous, nefarious, and malicious
dagger o type cruel barbed wire
accusing, condemning, and emasculating,
(I could continue),
but ye dear reader would tire
unless individuals
affected by xenophobia
countenance same stance
as Commander in Chief,
or contrariwise some
like minded
thinkers, rack coon sitter
the migrant situation dire,
would effectively serve me
as preaching to
the Unitarian choir,
yet any sensate
person must admit
tis quite upsetting, lamenting,
and agonizing to witness
hordes of persons treated like
some pestilential
eyesore dagnabbit,
yes this chap can
endlessly spout flibbertigibbet,
though thee crux of my opinion,
inspires a poem express
sing supportive emotions
particularly acknowledging,
how these masses (thousands)
of vulnerable individuals
show true grit,
nonetheless yours truly,
would be hard pressed
for an immediate
humane solution to corral
this extensive kit
and caboodle, though this generic guy
with a poetic knack
shakes his noggin
watching armed flack
delivered from border patrol agents/
United States military, lack
restraint, and who outright attack
trespassers at point
blank range that pack,
a deadly (Judge Judy ish
huss) punch smack
king young ones
upside the head forcing
everyone to backtrack
to their homeland of
persecution by crack
headed gang members, which thugs
violently land a deadly whack!
I married someone in America, "My royalty" -
But can you look away from Brides in Sari*
That long, silk or chiffon sheet several feet long
Wrapped with tantalizing patterns around
And around, until thrown over her shoulder?
Another act of royal bearing, wearing Sari ...
Even the floral tops over pants (Kurtah-pajama)
Become these stars - even in zillahs - far from Bollywood
The elegance was first sensed in my Mom in Africa
Yes, I was raised by Hindu-Muslim folk far from India
But with all the curries, puri, chapati, samoosa, subjee
Any South Asian would die for, even in sumptuous America ...
LORD shows me these hard-working Moms who give
And never stop giving: see them in USA
Right under your noses, running businesses
Going home and cooking real food from scratch
Even to the n'th course with heavenly deliciousness
I cannot imagine the non-stop cultural fountains
They draw from, to love so much: man and children
Add grandchildren, and her energy yet abounds
So, I know what I missed, when I emigrated ...
From Hades, I watch Abraham's Bosom
Without blame: praying for those in villages
Without much water, or sanitary napkins, yet
As sanitary as Princesses: cooking, healing, generating
The next great doctor, computer guru for you
And for me, in the West. India's loss and mine
Are your gain: God loves you so much ...
Say that to yourself when U see a South Asian lady
(Now you know why your eyes linger on my Sister)