Are we not the mercy killers ourselves
To have deprived brother a soul in the
Rampage... To have deprived families
And devoid too only left a tatty memo
Are we not the mercy killers ourselves
To have claim immunity after the deed
Beast upon beast, ramp upon ramp to
Manifest in the so called harmony city
Harare bred the playgrounds of abrupt
Peverse behavior of the brother in blue
And his grey top revealing the untold
Suffering, born victim of circumstances
Harare where brothers in blues and grey
Open fire to citizens and the press turns
Be inarticulate and off relevance...Damn
We are muted yet we long to burst cries
Arent we mercy killers? If we screen the
Scenary of the drawned brother in Seke
Nyatsime river caused terror, Flooded ?
Ironic is not it ? Mercy killers, mongers
Arent we mercy killers? If we screen the
Scenary of the fatal accident along Seke
And fail to pay grief to the fallen brother
In the same Seke road our cameras rom.
Categories:
harare, anger,
Form: Quatrain
I was walking in the field that time
The maize leaves blinding my eyes,
Star thorns pricking my feet,
I could hardly find what we were looking for;
We kept on following our leader:
He is the one who had sown everything,
Within minutes he had picked five huge pumpkins,
I had none at all.
I felt my effort was being thwarted
My will started to dwindle;
I started following behind him,
My eyes settled on a small pumpkin
His leg already half astride passing it by
I chose to show him how my eyes had opened.
He said its mother had died:
That's why it hadn't fully grown;
Why it wasn't worth packing
For the special people in Harare:
We just left there holding on
To its withering mother.
It had not grown half for us to see
What kind of pumpkin it would make:
They are all green
When they are not fully grown,
But they change shape,
Patterns of shade and what have you.
Each time I think of the small pumpkin,
I wish its mother had survived,
While I could not explain the death
With the rains having been so plush that season:
It had fallen hard and soft and all.
Categories:
harare, death,
Form: Ballad
I sold my special shirt
For twenty five dollars, babe,
I can't affort the transport costs
To get on the bus and go
Let my eyes caress my love.
I can afford to move around
With nothing on, for my babe,
I will do anything just to be
With her.
You never left me,
I went through so many changes;
I shiver to think about it,
And I tremble over and over
My body babe.
You were with me when I was up
And you were down;
Now you are up and secure,
But is constantly real;
I am all that you ever wanted.
Your love ain't fake and low budget
Like the good looking Chinese handsets
Sold on the streets of Harare;
They cannot achieve
Even a quarter or less of what they profess.
Categories:
harare, love,
Form: Alexandrine
it all started in old
highfields
in Harare were love
never sleeps
romance that burnt
jabavu drive
madness that
manufactured oneness
yes my Romeo you
were
and your Juliet i was
and so close you
would hold me
tie me with the ropes
of love
a romantic web i
could not escape
you would kiss me so
passionately
as if to quench my
brains away
in this chariot of love
we traveled
through streets,
cinemas, parks and clubs
and one day distance
came between us
slowly we grew
apart, went our separate
ways
armed with
memories and regrets
for ever i will long for
those days
cherish all the good
times we had
it was a one hit
wonder
one hit wonder is all
it was
Categories:
harare, love, romance, love, me,
Form: ABC
Here the clammy flesh
Of the hopeful worker
In a flicker found rest.
After a harsh crackle of muscle
On an acre of steel rails,
Here, he spent his thirst.
Never schooled worker,
Donkey pilgrim to a Mecca
Beast is despised.
At the kick of the factory clock
In cruel steel tents
In full blaze of the sun
You spilled sweat to the last litre,
Toiled, & tip toed
On Christmas in sunny shoes,
Starched ties & ashen shirts
Over a tattered tin of some stale brew,
One you took as a crew.
These hostels were built,
Says a school of thought,
To hat colonial guilt
Stuck in Buss System’s golden gut
Like iron filling clog a file till its teeth are sunken.
Old pastel flats, they plunk
Daily to frown at the pink sun
They do not shift till time’s finish.
Their sad-cherry has twisted auburn.
As lofty as they rise
They must sink into the soils
They so despise!
Categories:
harare, political
Form: I do not know?