Long Kalahari Poems
Long Kalahari Poems. Below are the most popular long Kalahari by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Kalahari poems by poem length and keyword.
The Bushmen of the Kalahari Desert grow up listening to the stars…
and feeling the joy their music brings….
but for most of us the stars are silent…we have never heard them sing.
Nor can we talk to the flowers, the forest…the oceans
and all the animals who within them dwell…
We’ll never know the adventures they’ve had…
never hear the stories they can to tell.
The Bushmen have an explanation for this…a simple reason why:
So many of us have lost our connection to the the land…the seas…the sky.
So I’ve been doing a little experiment with the rabbits I see on my walk…
when I see them I stop…close my eyes…and in my head we have a little talk.
I say, Good Morning Rabbits…do not be afraid…do not be alarmed….
I just want to say hello…I won’t cause you any harm.
I tell them not to worry…that I will soon be on my way…
I hope that they are happy and to have a wonderful day.
Of course at first they ran away…back into the bushes, the grasses…the woods.
I wasn’t sure if they heard me…or if the did…they understood.
But lately they’ve stopped running…they don’t find me so offending…
I think, perhaps, my words and thoughts they might be comprehending…
Or perhaps it’s nothing more than simply rabbit curiosity
I can’t be sure because, no matter how much I talk to them…
they have yet to talk to me.
But now that I have their attention…
I let them know they are welcome to talk to me too…
that they can take their time…that I’ll be listening when they do.
These rabbits are the first connection I’m trying to make…
on them many of my hopes and dreams are clinging….
because if this experiment works…who knows…
perhaps…
one day…
I’ll hear the songs the stars are singing.
As I embarked on my winding way,
With gin by my side, come what may,
A cold companion, flavored with zest,
Juniper berries danced upon my quest.
At every sip, a tear did fall,
A sorrowful tale, of love's bitter call,
But I couldn't resist the drink's sweet sway,
For in its warmth, my loneliness would stray.
The road was long, the night was dark and grey,
I needed solace, a friend to stay,
And so I sought the kindness of a cop's eye,
One who would look the other way, and let me pass by.
In this era of corruption's stain,
It's a rare find, a good cop's refrain,
But I was lucky, or so it would seem,
For they smiled and waved, and let my journey beam.
The hours ticked by, as I drove through the night,
Contending with rain, and potholes in sight,
I'd stop and rest, at every lay-by's gate,
And let the silence, soothe my weary state.
And then I saw it, a glimmer of light,
The land ahead, a beacon in flight,
I'd reached my destination, worn but true,
And though the journey was long, I'd made it through.
The gin was gone, but its memory stayed,
A bittersweet tale, of love and dismay,
But I'd found my way, through the dark and the cold,
And in the end, my heart was made of gold.
Form:
By Parizo Van Thulare
I was born endless miles from the town
Where tales are told about the king in his crown
Where plates are treated same glass
So fragile respect is of the erything
So beautiful My land is stunning
I speak in languages of types
Pepperd with traditions
And dishes of all kinds
African made with the greatest taste
African grilled with inspiring tales
Where I come from mountains sing the sweetest
Rivers play the romance
The Baobabs are cutiest
It is the land of its own kind
My Africa ,my quest
I come far away from the mountains of Drankesnberg
They Roar with beauty .
Near Lies the tunnel of Straitjdom Lepelle flows peacefully
Full of acquatics living blissfully
The words it sings
speak for the trees
It breezes the fume of sighs
With a flavor of purple ice
Down to Mapunghubjwe I rise
My Africa , my best
The history of the greatest is unleashed
It calls upon the genius to come and aphrend
It calls upon the future to come and learn
My Africa ,my pride
I haven't done yet
Get something to write
Still I 'm here to rhyme.
Talk about the bothers of Kruger
Worldwide are known
Worldwide they are shown
The falls of Victoria
The Valleys of Zambezi
The desert of Kalahari
Lobola or mahadi
This is my Africa
See the cars in colors pouring
See nations in rainbows queuing
To see only the biggest
To witness the wrestlemania of the nature
Ohh! what a wonderful adventure
My Africa is my biome
The land of dreams and hopes
All thanks to the almighty for such smashing home
I'm so proud to be an African
I'm so down with my heritage
I’ve asked you for love, but my heart
Is a playground of pains like matchsticks & veld,
I’m a broken-pieced soul.
I prayed for success, instead all I see
Is them whammies in numbers of mega bus,
All tight up blocking every hole to breathe.
I asked for this dear life but in it I see tears pinning my cheeks.
I’m inches away from crying such blood left in me,
Momma is with no degrees,
Father left in the ages of storm
And the shelter I have pours water when it rains.
My friends, the ones I grew up with, changed with lanes ‘cause
I fail to even get handwork to make a living in me.
My hair is greyish not by mistake,
The world I live in favours the sons and daughters of the rich,
Without connections I’m just moss in the middle of the Kalahari.
When I try to keep up, they are dragging me down
Like a prey impala on the canines of lion, why me?!
Why do I have to feel pain all emotionally, physically
Like I was bred with it hereditarily?
Why can’t I just get a hold of myself once?!
Guide me please!! I haven’t lost faith in you.
Despite what modern sociology tries to tell us,
Race is not a social construct.
It’s a biological thing based on genetic code.
But it isn’t really based on color.
Take black for instance
Obviously all blacks are related as humans
But are not all the same race.
The blacks of West and East Africa
And the blacks of southern India
Australia and Southeast Asia are not the same.
Then you have the San Bushmen of the Kalahari,
All clearly and distinctly different, but all
By merely geographical adaptation,
With nut brown to near black skin.
Then there are the whites
All now grouped together
From northern Europe to northern Africa
With all shades from sun absorbing
Almost pigmentless pale tan
To rich sunbaked sun reflecting golden brown.
There are at least a few sub-races there.
Same for Asia, which is why in the old days
Anthropologists classified humanity as at least
Eleven different races.
Since then the blending
Has only increased, diluting regional clines
Into a more homogenized whole,
So now we’re down to a simplified Big Three
Or as some would say, dumbed down
To just the one “human race.”
Such simplifying sounds good on paper perhaps
A way to make us all equal
While at the same time somehow denying
Our hard won distinct and diverse differences,
But just imagine us doing this with sound
Or the other colors?
All notes reduces to one “white noise”,
Although of course we’d have to call it
Something different!
All colors of the rainbow combined into one
Which might be pure white or black
Depending on your preference,
But as a painter I’d say more like a muddy brown.
As a painter I’d have a hard time making art
With only a muddy brown palette.
As a musician I’d have a hard time making a song
From that colorless noise.
What would the world be
Without our inherent differences?
Safe, secure, bland to the point
Of total boring.
Bland enough we’d never want to ever wake up.
Now I think I see the plan.
(9/19/26)
The streams of chameleon
cultures are wrapped in an
unending charade of peace,
love and warmth. How I wish
we were truly free indeed, not just
from the invaders. Free from ourselves,
our bonds, our lies and truth.
Even we, do not fully embrace our
strength. In ignorance we let our armour
and sword of unity divide us like the
devil's kettle. Our music brings light,
yet we agree to confine in darkness.
Our laughter serenades the universe in
green cords tied to the sky still, we bask
in the solitude of sadness drawn from
petals of mud and rotten clay.
How do I sing this tale in voicelessness?
How do I serve these crystal dishes in volcanic flames?
How do I tell my mother down the earth
that her saplings no longer hear her words?
They race to chaos like their umbilicals are buried in its dissolution.
Where's the yearning for nature?
Where's the kiss for art?
The displays for rhythm are now left
in pieces of tunes shredded by the
anger of the sun.
Imaginations have sailed mercury.
Common sense painted in drowned ombre.
How do I tell my children that empathy got buried in the lost city of Kalahari?
That karma had a glitch and mercy
hears no plea.
How do I tell them that sacrifice is not a term used in the world we've created?
That compromise forgot its last name
in the Atlantic Ocean.
What piece of air is left for their children
to come?
Characterized by the early settlement
of the San Bushmen of the Kalahari.
Its patriotic sentiments of profound bravery
echos the nation’s long struggle for independence
well articulated and expressed in the psalm of Axali Doeseb.
This second to the least overpopulated territory
is home to the continent’s tallest elephants
and the endangered black rhino.
It houses the world’s oldest desert
with a display of the globe’s highest sand-dunes.
Quadruple medals from Frankie Fredericks,
remarkable atmospheric space for astronomers and star gazers,
spectacular deserts in the Kalahari and Namib
and the emanating awe from the Namib-Naukluft park
are national prides fixed into global glories.
Next after the Grand canyon is the Fish river counterpart
but the Dragon’s breath stands tall in the globe’s underground lakes.
Populates the most in free-roaming Cheetahs,
accepts nature’s curse of the historic Northern coast
and the sun’s blessing in over three hundred days every year.
‘peace be still’ is the definition of its pride
but still not exempted from the painful whip
afflicted by the demon enslaving its mother- region.