To bow my head before oppression
was never written in my genetic code.
To play the slave for a miserable wage,
and pray to the god of those slave-masters
in order to taste the pleasures of prosperity,
is nothing but a nightmare.
If I do not love you,
I will tell you straight in the eyes,
like those independence fighters
born of my genealogical tree.
I hate the hypocrites,
the deceitful, the envious,
the liars, the racists, the traitors,
and those human beings who lie down
beneath the weight of oppression.
I am the expression of a humanity
freed from the burdens
of Western societal conformity.
I despise propriety
when the environment is hostile.
When I suffer,
my demons seize control of the vessel.
I have but one life,
one journey,
one dusk,
before the reaper
comes to harvest my tainted soul.
My allegiance is to Africa,
despite the chaos that has reigned there for centuries.
I will remain bound
to the cradle of humanity
until my final dusk.
From the rising sun in the east
To casted shadows after dark in the west,
Our tribal marked faces show,
A timeless story, aglow.
Seasons come and go,
Hiding shades and dimmed sparks.
Beneath the sprawling swamps,
Cornering meandered mangroves,
Our roots run deep,
Anchored in attires of legacy.
Our heads see without light,
Guided by old wisdom unspoken.
Truth and strength wrap us,
Like leaves hiding the stem,
This binding keeps us to mother earth,
Fatherland, and to each other.
The river Nun whispers
Future tales of our past,
Her ebb and flow carry songs of joy,
Of resilience, of hope.
Wells oiled to bustle with life,
Echoing voices of a southern people united,
Crafting stories with each fishing net,
With each catch and harvest,
With each chant that shakes the air.
We stand with one another,
As trees in a forest,
Strong and steadfast,
Each branch reaching,
Each leaf singing,
Together in harmony,
Brothers and sisters fit to guide,
The new call of the river Nun.
My grandmother's hands
knew things mine have forgotten,
how to make bread rise,
how to hem a dress
so it would last.
She saved everything:
buttons in mason jars,
stories in the space
between stirring and serving,
love in the way she said
my name.
This is what we lose
when we move too fast,
the slow art of remembering,
the patient work
of passing things down.
Her kitchen was a kind of church
where recipes were prayers,
and every meal
a small act of keeping
the world together.
Now, I try to learn
what she never had to teach:
how to make something
with my hands,
how to turn memory
into bread,
into words,
into something
that will feed
the ones who come after.
Each story I tell my daughter
is a vote against forgetting,
a way of saying:
this mattered,
we mattered,
you matter too.
One day I rode my bicycle out to the countryside,
where, the air was still, and trees stood tall in a row.
Their scent, a fragrance I had known long ago,
made me ponder of our fading culture and worried.
Resting on a rock beneath a sprawling tree,
I saw a maiden dressed in ancient garb.
She captivated me and led me to an ancient land
where people welcomed me with open eyes.
The maiden stepped outside,surrounded by friends,
and danced - so enchanting and graceful.
Then an old man clad in robes of old, appeared.
He said, "That maiden is your ancestor, revered,"
But when I woke up, my people stood close by,
and all the vision faded into the sky.
I'm the flicker, the flame, the spark when you can't see,
I'm the moonlight in the dark, a mystery.
I'm the rustling in the leaves, the breeze and the trees,
And maybe the wolf's howl on the wind whispers, "That's me."
A long, drawn-out sound, both wild and free.
My roots run deep, a Cherokee decree,
And when I stomp the earth, its strength flows into me.
The river flows onward, a path my spirit knows.
Where in its cool depths my true reflection shows.
I don't know if I'm the beautiful wolf or the woman,
Yet, I know I have them both running through my veins.
They dock at the old ferry landing,
drip fern-water and quartz dust,
pull shapes from a memory
nobody can name.
The news calls them pioneers.
The city calls for volunteers:
one hundred credits a shift,
hazard pay if you stay after dark.
We line the streets in plastic ponchos,
swing buckets of bleach
at whatever falls from them—
glass teeth, velvet skins,
the small, sad faces they wear like necklaces.
The mayor cuts a ribbon made of hair,
offers a key to the city
that dissolves in the taker's hand.
Still, the parade lurches on:
a hollowed calf that leaks birds from its eyes,
a choir of mouths stitched into a winter coat,
a gloved hand, walking on its fingertips,
asking directions in sign language.
We clap.
We wave flags.
We rinse the sidewalk behind them, smiling.
We stay because the escape pod is too expensive.
There was never room for us anyway.
The loudspeakers keep saying:
Welcome home. Welcome home. Welcome home.
Fresh ocean air
Oh, take me there!
To the place below the hill
Three hundred years
I hold it dear
Ancestors can be felt still
For all I've roamed
My heart knows home
And it cannot get it's fill
How does it long!
For ancient song
And the view from mine own sill
A seat of peace
My mind's at ease
Oh, the terrors a place can kill
Soon I'll return
All else to burn
And allow my heart to spill
Beneath the sun's eternal flame,
A dynasty rose to eternal fame.
The Cholas ruled with might and grace,
Their legacy carved in time's embrace.
Kaveri's waters sang their song,
Of rulers just, and armies strong.
Temple carved with sacred art,
A culture vast, a noble heart.
From Rajraja's mighty reign,
To Rajendra's seas where power gained.
Their ships sailed forth, the oceans bowed,
To the Chola's might, the world avowed.
Their temples stood with granite stone,
A testament to what they'd known.
Through divine halls, their glory shone,
Their culture carved, their power grown.
In the books of history, Cholas are bold and proud,
As their reign stood tall above the crowd.
Through bloody battles and warriors stout,
The Chola's names are what the warriors shout.
Their heritage, a timeless flow,
In Kaveri's depths, the tales still glow.
A dynasty whose strength did grow,
The Chola's legacy, we know.
,
Tell me
Can a tree without roots
Ever bear fruit?
Tell me
Can a ship without sails
Ever make haste in the boundless sea?
Death creeps, cloying
Knotted garters frayed
Under the sea the sirens wail
Forgotten, ignored
But for the ones who live on
The feet do drag on
Swollen, septic, deeply forlorn
For those of us who are aware
Who live in a world; awake
Be sure to spare a thought
For us lowly wretched
Hope exists of course
There must be light for shadows
But fruit does surely rot
Make haste, the eye of the needle continues to narrow
Something old, something new!
I rebirth beyond what my roots eschew.
I ascend from my descendant's group shadow,
to rise above and beyond what they bestow.
I cannot shed their genes and heritage.
While I respect my upbringing and parentage.
I rise above the limits of pedigree,
to shred the trammel bounds of mediocrity.
So here I stand both old and new.
Living a dream they never knew.
With the blockchain defining my past,
Eaten with my fate in a defiant repast.
My genes define my descendants' phenotype.
Alas I cannot change their archetype,
beyond the mutations in my DNA,
to give my progeny my ascent display.
Arise descendant now ascendant
Bask in joyous glee resplendent.
(May we hear and breathe the words of our indigenous ancestors
And may we all be so lucky as to have an indigenous future)
Life is a beautiful word.
Oh Great Spirit
As we walk across the Earth
Teach us
Help us find
Peace
Dignity
Respect
The courage and strength to be brave
Wisdom and truth
Kindness
Honesty
Humility
We look to you for love
Compassion
and honor
So we can make a better world
for everyone
and everything
As I gaze upon the splendor of the beach:
yellow, soft and resplendent and compliant.
I realize that it is a debris field of bones.
Of shattered shells devoid of sound-of-sea-echoes.
Of bit of crabs, seaweeds and bones of fishes ground to dust,
all gathered into an amorphous tell-tale pile.
It's congealed when wet, soft and flowing when dry.
This boneyard of bone, shell grit and bony bits,
is caressed by the wind, currents and waves into dunes, banks, bars and drifts
that are constantly played and reworked.
It is this boneyard beach which provides the perfect
barrier and margin along the shore absorbing
the thrust of storms, winds and waves
protecting it from erosion.
Like the bones in a cemetery, or a calavera
the debris field on a beach
protects and sustains the living form
with the heritage remains of the past,
remembered and put to good use.
My_poem
and let me not be lost
I am the greatest of the Mabulas, the thobola seanamarena, the people of the boy Mogoru diobejana, who say the king's sword should try to stab, they say the spear to stab the brother Matheba a diopong.
They say home is home to the bird of prey. They say they are the people of Mmageng Mosebjana. They were born to a molatadi, a young man from Manthole. Their grandmother says; I am a farmer of corn, brother of Mašupya and Mokoba of hands.
He says I am the owner of the grain, I love the laughter. He says about being me the resident of the fields. That is the child of MORWATHOKE, he is stabbing the cockroach, just like the spear in the seventh of the sepeke. He says I am the father of mathari, I am the party.
He says I should really cry for the Rantikwane man. He said please I beat someone mafena. He says I cry for someone we don't know. He says I am the child of the dish of kings followed by kings. He says I am not crying to rule. He said please I am crying to win. He says this kingdom belongs to his brother Matheba a diopong. He says in my hometown the bird takes it wisely.
Together, we stand; divided, we fall. Whisky in our veins & Fire in our hearts.
Names of our fallen, written in the stars. Pipers play as the wind blows through the heather on the hill.
Birthplace of kin, the hand of warriors extended.
The thistle sways in the highland breeze, symbolising strength & solidarity.
The best you have ever seen, the worst you will ever cross.
The name Johnston whispers through the hills, striking fear in those who have wronged. Fire of love burning to those of kind.
wooden spoon worn smooth
calloused hands’ enduring tool
sleeps in a drawer
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