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Best Poems Written by Wilson Waison

Below are the all-time best Wilson Waison poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Wilson Waison Poem

At once she paid a visit. In her colorful dress, so revealing and appealingly suited to her slendern torso. I to gaze the door way, mine heart pounded viciously, a death knock. I was stunned. Then realised all that was real as she pass on her regards taking a sit before me. Still yet I was shut.
Previously she had scored the bro. Told being a cheat at displeasure and her words so bitterly spat alike an adder's sting. That was the status qou as at the thirtieth of November that year. Surprisingly all that matter might had frozen the sorrow felt, it was indeed a rush.

What a day it turned be?... As she sat I poked back, How do yo do? She replied," How do you do?". I dared not to call it a conversation yet, for it was tense and cold. Seemingly sombre was the atmosphere in prevalence, I dared...
"Its been a while, how have you been lately ?" I asked in an inquisitive modus
"I have been doing great dear," she bellowed, aloud than ever
Then that drew curiosity. For almost a month we had strained our cordial relationship awry. Without tangible reasons to lay, all that could post was assertions, allegations and accusations of that sort. I took a deep breathe of splendour and amour. The went and closed gates in deep thoughts. One, two, three step at halt, I did burst a gut.

***
"So how goes life?" I outed
"Treating me well, can't complain" her response
"Oh, can tell, you look great eh!" Compliment
"Thank you, you such a darling" *In nous I was like Really?*
"I'm I" I dared
"Yes" she assured
Impetuous then turned the light conversation betwixt us, like honestly I was deeply drawn to the margins of hate and rage because of her treat previously then all that ceased with her tease. I was calm. Then past an episode of a catching up conversation with which my wrath was eased.

***
Then there was this body language, she came closer, where I stood. I felt all the vein's dash, blood rushing off pulses. I froze for moments, then her twin lip spoke of intimate phrases as it touched mine, tongues rolling in a playful modus, then I knew magic was bound and inevitably crafted by her mortal touch.
Faintly breathing I paced a leap further forth, crabbing her back side, Her colorful dress revealed the darkest purpose of that splendid second Monday of December 17. As I fumbled every detailed piece of her torso, my pulse did doubled, trebled in revulsion cheer.

We both laid across, the Tv set aloud, her passionate cries were thwarted, Echoes were of the injected film cassette entitled The jungle book , if not a toon. In the next door was channel France 24, with the news updates so loudly perceived. It highlighted on the current affairs, Zimbabwean President elect, Crd Munangagwa in his speech that read
" ...No men or women is less important in building our nation forward in a progressive fashion..."
That shifted minds for a while meditating profoundly at that speech of immunity, Mine query was whom to trust since Zimbabwean politics proves an ulcerative colitis, merely a snake of both ends vicious, at one end political conflicts and at the other end terror.

From mid November Zimbabwean political arena had proved a dilemma as Robert Mugabe was declared off governments. Further, it followed a series of riots in resistance of his reinstate.

***

As the news feed kept going, we were at revulsion peak. Then all I could see was lated. Emotionally I was into the act. Leaking tardily her upper body, we switched turns. Mine hand did fumble beneath her waist in a bid to seek warmth inside her pouch. I went in, it was fantastic. A slave of Eden suited my fate that faithful dash.
She did the going as I came in so tough, the sensation equities gloomy penetrance. I knocked gently betwixt her slenderness, at ease camly in and out. Once. Twice. Thrice.

It became a routine that sapped all mine energies with a pleasant feeling evoking in the dash. My back did bent, harshly greased off, it became the pivot to all that slavery. Enslaved by circumstances in prevalence. I toiled. Speechless as her tongue held mine round and round. I would not call it intimate bred. She out stood a cupids pierce.

Then felt her swamp lucrative paste she secreted with my ejaculation at once. Heavens on earth I outed not, that was its peak amid sobs and groans. Laying hard, breathe so faintly done, she became my inspiration. Seized was the joy... With the pulse lapsing treble normal. I was off. At ease erectile dysfunction.

***Curtains***

Starring each at mutant loud breathe, smiling. Dripping wet. I rushed for the towel rail and grabbed one. Wiped off the drip. All acted dumb. Thoughts were now of the escapades I outed, not or to distend her tummy became mine mystery held. Moments past. Only gazes thrown, no word ever uttered.

She broke the dead silence.
"I felt you in, I embraced the odd, today's curse"
"Oh! I enjoyed the ride too" I responded. Dotty.

***Curtains***

Details | Wilson Waison Poem

Roots

Roots
Who are we? Is the quest in nous?
That rings each mos. as I think
Of roots and the traditional trail
Till a muffled loud voice echoed
                              Impetus child
“We are Africans”
The true reflection of Ubuntu…
The Bantu from the western margin
San of Kalahari, Koi koi of Kuvhuki
Whom travelled on bare feet and 
Endured the dry, thorny paths…
With the sun overhead, red hot and
Its rays amplified resulted in the toil
The toil of the quest, the quest of
Self-discovery in the Saharan region
An arid, blister to hast endured.

And the quest still melds in nous
Who are we? My intimate’s pike
Traditional ethos I question awry
And a muffled loud voice echoed
                               Impetus child
“We are Africans”
At a verge of impedance for we
Have lost the traditional trailer
Ethics strained, Morality sent to
The guillotine, customs now ills, 
It is indeed the scratch of the triadic 
Generation, we hast wandered away from
The roots, sexuality and taboos our toys
Dignity impedes as we stride one leap 
Forward and twice the step backwards
In defilement of Ubuntu, culture diluted
By these delusions of grandeur, lost in 
This so called globalisation…

Details | Wilson Waison Poem

Tribute Three

Call me what you may

Call me what you may, A dog, a scavenger 
Or even the dirty pig, but that is way too far
From transfiguring my appearance, call me
What you may even the worst pun but ado 
Comes on and change my affectionate deed

Call me anything that cross your minds and
Able to pronounce, even the most unbearable 
Creature you sort crawls on earth and see if
I die for it won’t be affecting my breathing in
And out... the routine will still go on and on 

It is most than injudicious to call me a wild beast
Whilst everyone witty calls me THE ADONIS ONE
I won’t blame you for calling me a nitwit for your 
Brains are too weak and needs a fully qualified 
Mental practitioner to examine its functions awry

Will they not call you a dead mental deranged
One for pointing  tosh on a figure of classy calibre 
How happy I am to meet a nefarious fool, who does 
Not praise what is worth just like the fool in the 
Beauty and the beast who takes his life for a shot

I do not even mind to living in the same galaxy 
With a dirty minded day dreamer who always see
Bad over good deeds and spoil my benedictions 
Of splendid manners. Just call me what you may
And check if I will hate you for your blind minds.

Robert Musiiwa Mharadze

Details | Wilson Waison Poem

Emotions

As the sun rose spelt a new genesis my dove
Realising utmost how lame I be without you 
Oh I grieved over the sensational feeling love
Emotional I seemingly be, but battling for you

Alike in my fears I bring forth all my heart to
Pledge no deceit, of mutual bonds and truths
Be our ties meant not be broken and not too
To strain, lies whispering third parts truths

If of splendour and sour portrays the realm a
War zone thence i wage mine to wrestle for us
You to stand your stance, either of victors. A
Swift battle to save hearts or turn our tragedy

I rather be imprisoned in my fears forever in
Behind the bars of your cuddles, underneath 
Your rob. If this be fate I elect it be a tin
Full of passions be my daily breakfast in stock

Details | Wilson Waison Poem

Mercy Killers

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.

Details | Wilson Waison Poem

Transition

Transition 

A grandson of the revolution of late 90s
The progeny bored in evolution the 21st 
Dynamic spells the prospectives of son's
Daughter's of soil. Mwana wevhu stunga.

Deep thoughts from within depths, ours
Guts inflamed by the political ulceration
From the roots of revolutionary liberties
That was spelt far from a distant, tsunga

Tangenhamo was all the comrade voted
Rugare then never did he rendered, and
To out my grif was indeed a taboo craft
Dilemmas I to have embraced in distress. 

The thoughts kept going on and on, an
Expedition in nous that bore no potency
No power was for the people by people
And kinship spelt breached by the odds

More misery kept cascading in and in, a
Day spelt years not that I was in chains
But bondage was all my grandpa's grant
Not that I was a slave but I endured more

Persistence and resilience became mine
Remedies in the 2002 era, Fast tracking
Hyper inflation, Corruption, Destruction,
Followed the walls brought down, tsunga

Inclusively the struggle was ablaze, spelt
A ceaseless brawl, brother's got lashed
Sister turned an Orangutan, savages of
That phases and never time did awaited. 

The process of shaking the old horses
For the new ones became a grandeur so
Rinsed that bored detention by the blue
Suited brother with grey topped shirts...

Till today a brilliant beam shade off the
Darkness from a new dawn, Drawn from
The proficient past. Is it the same notion
In motion to embrace. Rugare or tsunga.

How I would love to embrace the phrase
Tangenhamo, Manifestations of Rugare
In this era spelt a new dispensation by
Those learneds  on the stratagem apex.

If only the sentiment of democracy will
Be driven forth by the elites and those
Whom sits in the parliaments then I will
Embrace the old foster in the new era...

To welcome once again my kinship that
Has been crushed alike a crunch bargain.
And no more manifestos and speeches
Promises meant be broken. Rugare huya

Details | Wilson Waison Poem

Television

Today at six I tuned my television set
To gaze attentively... Propaganda they
All say and that today I could testify to
The spelt evil. The vision telegrammed.

To no avail the brother that was caught 
In betwixt the shooting and rampages
Of the commuters was not screened...
Yet they say no to press censorship too

I later realised that I had no saying even 
When terrorised by my own. So absurd 
And my groans never impact the comrade
Even the commissar so reluctant to my plea.

Best Poems Written by Wilson Waison

Erectile Dysfunction

Motherland

Memory

Delight

Roots

Tribute Three

Emotions

Mercy Killers

Transition

Television