Zambia Poems

Zambia Was My Mother

Zambia was my mother—
shaped like a butterfly resting in the heart of Africa,
her wings curved not by nature alone,
but by the lines of empires
who came to take what was never theirs.
They called her Northern Rhodesia,
after tasting the sweetness of her soil
and stealing the copper from her veins.

Her rivers run wild with spirit—
the Zambezi roaring with ancient songs,
Victoria Falls spilling the Smoke that Thunders,
blessing the weary and healing the broken.

She faces the Scorpio Sun,
and her children, like copper,
are strong yet quiet—
holding centuries in their silence.

Kenneth Kaunda once walked her soil,
weeping for Africa when she was in chains,
rejoicing when she rose again.

Zambia holds the bones of my ancestors
and the dreams of the unborn.
Her wilderness breathes with lions,
her sunsets bleed crimson into the night.

Africa cradles her,
and she cradles me.
When I return to dust,
let me rest in her copper-red earth—
for Zambia was my Mother,
and Africa is my Heaven.

Sounds of Birth

Today, this of ours, arrives.
Fragile, nameless and, yet deeply adored.
Nine months of anticipation and care,
Culminate in this precious moment shared.

The first warm rays of a mellow sunrise,
Illuminate the face so pure and divine.
The sweet scent of daffodils fills the air,
As joyful tears and laughter echo off the pink plastered walls.

In this vivid, scent-filled room of delight,
Sweat-drenched adults beam with joyful light.
A new life stirs, and love overflows,
Radiating this precious moment shared.

The Funeral Home

My footsteps changed and there upon stood this wide ostensibly simple wooden door which laid open such that I could see the comparatively dim candle lights on the alter. 
With my every heart beating sound, I approached cautiously with a rather uncertain foot step towards that alter. 
I could not but hold back the feeling of an overwhelming silence lingering within my thoughts. 
Before that alter and underneath the shadow of the dancing candle light, this of ours laid there, lifeless; and along with them, had taken away all my strength.

A Silent Goodbye

THIS is to remember my dear old friend
Memories I have, fading away
I walk on this road that has no end
In search of my friend, in a hopeless way.

I listen to bird songs in distant lands
To which my silent applause, brings me a tear
On this dreary dark night, 
I wish you could hold my hands, 
And give me comfort that you’re here.

You lifted me from bended knees
Made me a friend, as I regained my strength.
Before this setting sun, in times like these,
Thy smile would spread without restrain.

I look up into the sky, upon that fading light
The setting sun, a beckoning star 
Farewell my friend, wherever you are.

Deception

Through the cold night
I think of the homeless bird
seeking shelter under my roof
There's room for the twittering avian
A warm space by the ceilings
Not an imposition if the night is as calm as the 
silver moon that sneak past a dark cloud
And so this, a companion to accompany 
me through the gaping holes of my endless 
nightmares
And yet in the comfort of an estranged guest my 
heart hints a feeling of lies with half a hope and 
half a despair.

Kill the Corrupt Rats

Cookery is slavery if you don’t partake of the meal
It becomes foolery if you keep settling the bill
It is misery if you repeat the drill
Familiarity leads to rats chilling in the grill

Employment is exploitation if you can’t get a fair deal
It becomes poverty if you keep taking the pill
It is deprivation with tax deductions on your will
Gullibility that leads the thieves to steal

The Famous Expedition

A garden beneath the soaring sunrise-
Somewhere in nowhere
Lingers on~ in no-mans' land
A Majestic and glamorous scene-
A master piece with a picture green-
Landmarked with meadows within that nowhere-
Watered with blue waters perfumed in streams of gold.
Inconspicuous on a mystical terrain-
Lying hidden from the curious men
That explorers, wouldn't rather refrain.

My Family Tree

If I could have one tree in the garden
It'd be a sculpted tree with white roses

The women, Beautiful and elegant in their stature, 
would be the white roses that blossom earnestly.

Like branches frolicking in the twisting wind,
the men would solemnly standout
And I would be like a humble branch that has yet to bear fruit.

My ancestors, still anonymous where they lay
would be the unseen roots that firmly surveyed the land.

If I could have one tree in the garden
It'd have a couple of uninvited guests;
Weaving birds and African bees among many.
Flocks of wild geese would skim through tree
tops as they leave in search of fen lands.

If I could have one tree in the garden
It'd provide a shed to the homeless man from the blazing sun.

If I could have one tree in the garden
It'd be majestic for all people to see.

Nightfall

As the night falls from interstices of burning clouds, lumbering through the broad sky like grazing herds of sheep
There comes a great forlornness through the deep forests of Zambia.
Land marked by Withered Tallowwood branches, that once covered the fiery red sun.
The bayou, with dry river beds sleeping all the more calmly than hibernating Owls~ 
Looking somewhat haggard in their night coats~
waiting for the setting sun.
Summoning nature's obligation that remains oblivious to the break of dawn.

In Dispraise of Poetry

Guilty as charged they passed on the verdict
As the prisoner who had been accused of an atrocity, stood before the jury.
It comprised of not more than three panel of judges.
The eldest judge with white curly hair that rested upon his shoulders.
The prisoner, Innocent as the first born sons of Egypt on a merciless night; He slept in anguish of his own demise.
Dreamily and sadly 
He murmured, "comfort is a precipice, a shadow that covers off the light from our eyes;"
However, his punishment was to grow in his garden, a white rose for each time he wrote a poem.

Wall of Silence

My courtesy name passed down through generations, I bear the marker of an outstanding exultation.
Though sometimes I wonder if they were tall as I am.
Board as a leader, Fierce and humble in person.
Sometimes me thinks, the curiosity gives an innocuous valour.
This is so, I perceive
Praising and imaging them heroes in their own accord. 
Does my name run down through four generations
Or three, perhaps two?
How many passed through this torch that holds the strength of ten men.
Should I pass it on to others.
Should they also get the bear's maker of heroism.
For I am a man who's on social persona, embodies heroic and virtuous traits that demonstrate the highest degree of excellence.
Though Generations pass away, Traditions ripen and decay, this name still doth stands to old age.

Silent As the Tomb

In silence in dreams' 
Projections, Returning, Resuming, I thread my way through my dreams;
The hurt and wounded, I pacify with a soothing hand,
I sit by the restless all the dark night,
Some so young, some suffer so much, I recall the experience sad.

Sad because a few had lived to tell the tale,
Sweet because I had to trust in a better world.
If I am to trust anything,
it led me to stars over the shadowless mountain.
What does it not remember in it's night and silence.
What does it not hope
Knowing itself no child of time.

I am faithful, I do not give out.
I had to hold my life in my hands as my ribs hold up my heart.
I had to let it open it's wings and fly among the gifts of the unknown.

The Blind Poet

I was able to walk a mile at the age of 4
A gravel road in the night, cold with a breath of silence.
Holding tight to that familiar cloth, the only trust that I wore from birth.
I have it still.
It keeps me warm and guides my dreams along other paths, only that this time, I walk alone.
I remember nothing of that night. But the stories foretelling all my brave endeavors also save as the light that kept the curious beasts at bay.
And so, where do I turn to when nights blind me to a stand still. 
Surrounding all my consciousness with fear, the unforgiving fortunes of life.
Nay.. As along as I have the light that led the way through that night when I couldn't see nothing but only followed that cloth, I will rise above the storms like a young eagle.
I have trusted that which I have always had, and that's how it all began.
And now my young soul can seek the empty world again.

The Saddest Portrait

SEEING through the window, are clouds which move slow or maybe the dozing fellow has decided to recall of the vibrant days as he digs deep into his bag of memories 
Alas! He's all left alone now
Everything has gone; tears have gone too...
All his left with is a rocking chair and an old radio from which rock music makes but rather  unpleasant noise for him...
He's deep into those clouds, white as the memories pure...
Unmoved by the cares of life.
There's an old painting on the wall, He was a young stallion he was..
With a smile embracing his young daughter on the left and to the right a beautiful lady with a yellow flower placed on her right ear...
It is the only image caught in time apart from his own in those clouds.

The Stray

IT WAS a dreary February day
That melancholy walk by the park with a blue morning 
And a cloudless sky.

Alas! I met a stray puppy, effulgent with disproportionately large blue eyes.

It was fair, furry, dainty and round I thought---
It looked helpless to a lesser extent than I was that day, 

Nay; ---
curious and shy (In-need of a cuddle.)

Though it appeared to be innocuous and child-like in it's sentiments, i approached cautiously, like one in danger ---
Like one would enter a parish church after a remorseful week of sin.

No one on their right mind ought to know that every endearing puppy has a stray and agitated mother lingering close by ---

A stray and agitated mother who saw a saddened beast in me ---
And I wouldn't want that puppy's mother lashing out on me that day.

I met a stray puppy the other day and I wouldn't want that puppy's mother lashing out on me that day.

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