Anoucheka Gangabissoon is a Primary School Educator in Mauritius. She writes poetry and short stories as hobby. She considers writing to be the meaning of her life as she has always been influenced by all the great writers and wishes to be, like them, immortalized in her words. Her works can be read on poetrysoup.com and she had also appeared in various literary magazines like SETU, Different Truths, Dissident Voice. She has also been published in Duane’s Poetree and also in an anthology for the Immagine and Poesia group. Her poems are often placed in free online contests.
My quests from this world I seek, from this world, Truth I seek, from this world, inner bliss I seek, from this world, an escape I seek, from this world, understanding! Is it too much to ask for Pray, of life and its meaning None can give a clear answer Yet, All claim to be in love with its mystery All do take the pains to smile And welcome every situation As if it were a great blessing! As for me, I have spun, around my consciousness A web A web through which this world's lies Can creep not in A web which has me dreaming always Of what shall there be after! So much That, The world itself would deem me antisocial The world itself would deem me misanthropic! Life is for me, a ride down a river Of course, the flow changes from time to time From tranquil, the waters do become violent And of course, the river shall merge with the sea And that shall be when my soul's suffering will be appeased That shall be when my quests shall be given their answers! The game of life Life is a passing cloud It takes birth Blooms, allows everyone to admire it And fades out As if it were controlled by a gamer! Someone sitting and choosing the outcomes Someone sitting and propelling, us, The children of life, forward! Why, being mere children Our vision is so limited So much that we cannot even pierce through life's veil To have a glance at the gamer! Pray, like the cloud We shall all meet with our root! Pray, we merely need patience Patience and firm convictions! Reborn I am a mess I am a pile of shattered glass I am a lot of torn letters I am a doll broken into pieces I am the embers of burnt out wood I am, though Through faith and the mysteries of the skies, Reconstructed Having been willed a rebirth Resurrected And reassembled! Why, my world spins around myself In there, life is ruled not by societal rules In there, life is as I want it to be A party in a fully blossomed garden A laugh echoing along the walls of never ending mountains A freshly blossomed flower in Spring A clear pond in which fish lives carefree and safe Yes, and around my world, I have built a fortress None shall break me again! Pray, Should you wish to be have a glance at my world Why You would meet with my fiercest side Mind you Should you not meet up with the aptitudes I shall slay you!
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Ngozi Olivia Osuoha is a young Nigerian poet/ writer and a graduate of Estate Management. She has some experience in banking and broadcasting. She has published some works abroad in some foreign magazines in Ghana, Liberia, India and Canada, among others. She enjoys writing. HOLD ON TO YOUR DREAMS It shatters to lose a parent It could kill a beautiful dream, It kills to witness war It could rend hope apart, It tears to be raped It could smash destiny, It dwindles to be scandalized It could crush reputation, It discourages to be gossipped It could fade respect, But the future is a mystery Everything is a teacher Troubles advance our mentality Challenges enlarge our strength, Hold on to your dreams. Heartbreaks and disappointments Divorce and widowhood Spinsterhood and singlehood All and more, ache But there is more to life, A little bit of this A little bit of that, Joy and sorrow Pain and peace, Trauma and drama Vices and victories All, all elevate us So hold on to your dreams. Do not take your life Suicide is not an option, The heat of torments The rage of trials The height of temptations The peak of evil The climax of horror The apex of terror, All these shape our destiny Hold on to your dreams. We capture in adventure We see in adversity We grow in quest We expand in jungle Your dream must not die Big or small, tiny or large Soft or hard, short or long Nurse it, nurture it Feed it, grow it Feature it, annonce it Zoom it, let it boom. OIL AND GAS; MAMA'S TWISTED FATE Oil, the treasure that invited Jude And made Mama crude, The fortune that turned him rude And tied Mama, nude Oil, the wrath of blessing. He is still around And Mama bound He gallivants sound And Mama in wound, Whatever he does pound Mama the mortar on ground Gas, the thick smoke she breathes. Oil the scars on her body The disease in her bone marrow The thorn in her heart Oil, her commotion and confusion Gas, the thick smoke she breathes. The blessings she did pray The pain they always flare The breakthrough she did hope The barrier they do rope, Oil, the prayer God answered The skull they splintered Gas, the supplication she made The poison in her bread Oil and Gas; MAMA'S TWISTED FATE THE SACRAMENT In this our regiment We are the government, In this our settlement We go for enjoyment With equivalent judgement Shaped in engagement; Painted as achievement, Hence in disappointment We rage for upliftment, Racing toward retirement We grab more allotment But truly no entertainment Despite the ornament That remains the wonderment, We refrain from development Building on discouragement At the grave of encouragement, Which binds our empowerment As we crave for enhancement It yields only punishment Perhaps during refurbishment Beyond each establishment; We see madness and torment Then we steadily lament Yearning for amendment Praying for enrollment But that kills the moment, Darkens the firmament And captures our atonement Which blasphemes THE SACRAMENT VILLAGE POLITICS Bribery in royalty Greed in chieftaincy Deceit upon loyalty. Cowardice in red cap Ignorance in large map, Illiteracy widening the gap. The staff of injustice The sandals of atrocity, The belt of witchcraft. Foolishness loves the liquor Selfishness drinks to stupor Betrayal sells the tutor. Quarrels always fueled Fights frequently mailed Division broadly sealed. Gang up buying the poor Estrangement shutting the door Blood spilling on the floor. Blackmails openly booked Scandals well cooked, Rumours wisely hooked. Truth becomes the trap Trust remains a crap, Honesty, the lost lap. Diligence totally forgone Competence thoroughly undone, Negligence never gone. Bravery getting dumped Raped by slavery Fakery greatly crowned. Fairness turns the mourned Freedom already drowned Kindness never to be returned. Stupidity donates himself Anxiety chains herself, Integrity murders itself. The blind leading the seer The lame chasing the deer, The deaf training the trumpeter. Anger quakes the rooms Hatred glows and booms Revenge, everywhere looms. Boundaries everywhere Poisons, here and there Discrimination we all steer. Enmity, the watchword Discord, the dynasty Unity decamps our world. Agony behind the scar Harmony beyond the star, Matrimony buried deep far. Backbiting and slandering Defamation and propaganda, Hatred begeting hate. Village politics Sold like narcotics Enjoyed by lunatics. IF YOU SEE OJUKWU If you see Ojukwu Tell him, I never saw him But heard a lot he did, Tell him I see his pictures, That radiate determination His Afro hair and beard Typical of African masculine. If you see Ojukwu Tell him, I heard of the war Its horrors that still hover Its ghost that still haunts, Tell him, I see danger If you see Ojukwu Tell him, nothing changed. If you see Ojukwu Tell him, they still kill They still maim, They still marginalize Tell him, they still burn and bomb Tell him, the war is still on Tell him, they vanquished. If you see Ojukwu Tell him, tomorrow is uncertain Tell him we are deadlocked Heading to nowhere Ask him who do we blame, Fate, the gods, ancestors, Black or white? If you see Ojukwu Fail not to tell him these Please never hesitate Perhaps he will reincarnate a saviour, If you see Ojukwu Tell him living here is a war Dying here is a war too EN ROUTE Glued to their mat in the cave En route the swampy road, leaping like the toad They are saints that refuse to die And angels that detest heaven. Strand in babylon, a ruler Home relaxed, a woeful resident Peeping to know those asleep A boss tossing the cross on glass. Actors acting their scripts Covenanting to cover their coverteousness, Deceivers deceiving the deceivable Stage-managed promises and mockery. Mentals maiming those they should mentor Payers paid to play and entertain En route to watch and weigh To look and laugh at length. Running their mouths like comedians Drunk old wags wagging En route to see them one more time Upon my homeward way. En route to see tamed lions in the jungle And domesticated wolves, Most importantly, en route to search for the lambs headed toward their den En route to watch them do nonsense or nothing. THE MARATHON OF WAR It is a deep mystery In the face of reality An intermediate thriller And overwhelming horror Too existential, With little or no suspense Burning the atoms of freedom Boiling the particles of peace Folding the mat of romance As we run the marathon of war. The fear from leadership And the doubts in the citizenry The farness of justice And the hardness of fairness, The deadness of equity And the newness of terrorism The depth of racism And the pride of hate All, not just a limerick For the pain underneath religion And the trauma behind politics All, a dagger of arrogance With the spear of ignorance Supporting the marathon of war. The titbits of deceit Under the carpet of rulership The cankerworm and caterpillar The swarm of locusts Eating up the freedom of peace Thrusting a romance of horror, Tilling a thrilling mystery A marathon of war A race of agony A world of destruction Winning, losing and losing, winning A war on humanity And humanity at war All, a marathon of war. Donny Barilla has been writing poetry for over three decades and had maintained a passion for poems of nature, love, mythology, and intimacy. He lives in the state of Pennsylvania and draws from the landscape which continually surrounds him. His first book, “Treasures” has been released in August of two thousand sixteen. He lives a reclusive lifestyle and finds great inspiration in the beautiful nature that surrounds him.
Lovemaking in the Winter Hour Her hands-like icicles slipped beneath my belt and buckle. Weaved through the foliage of my chest and groin. Her lips- painted a deep crimson tugged warmth from beneath my skin, my tender thighs. I felt the heat pound against the freeze of my abdomen and I crept to the surface of her tongue, so softly I breathed. I am witness to the crescent curve of her doughy breasts. I sank, deepened into her tepid and alive- her snow powdered skin. Together we melted from the diaphragm and sulked, reborn into a genuflect of pulsing hot veins, drip of the fragrant bush. I reached inside of her and mumbled a verb of enticement- plasmas flush across in winters breadth. At the Machais I dipped, swam through the icy arms of the heavy Machais. I heard the tears of the slithering grass fall as a glisten- a dying frost. In the gloat of the visible distance I heard a scream, from tumbling pastures there was a fall across the slap of the ocean. I turned my head, bust and welcomed the winds as they tunneled above the calmness - the saps of the bushes begged for touch. I heard the cry of the black fly, as it steeped through the buckling winds. I softly screamed to the roof of the fog dipped earth. Sweetly, I love the fly as it dreamed it's way to the Machais- slow I surrender. I could feel the slippery dew of morning I feel the throb of the Autumn. A glaze to forested floor, a thin gauze, I revealed myself to the sauce of cove and bend. Pit and Pail The plums withered in the sun -withered with age. I smell the sweetness rising to the palate of the careful breeze. I bent and gathered a few in my palm. My teeth snapped the naked black flesh and hurriedly it seeped across my lips, corners of my mouth, which opened like a draw bridge and slapped my tongue and fumbled to the back of my throat. The stem of my plums yearned for the tree and it's fathering roots. I can feel the flesh of the plum, sap across the pit and pail of my chest, stomach. I dug a generous hole in the earth, I buried the raped pit, waiting for a good rain. Summer Heat With lightning dashing from the joust of my tongue I swam into her, the inks of the sky, spread poison through both vein and an endless cavern of life. I swept, circling dust above the crest of my torso and bust. The porch held the hand of the mashing rains. I- am witness to the flickering lights, held by the backdrop of nightfall, each felt rivulet dresses the dust into a smolder of soft buzzing light. I could hear country music dazzle the late night which conference the jazzes of the tumultuous dust. Calmly, I- gathered the hot flesh, as if born of the apple, a crack, snapping bite from her skin. Juice, plasma, and tepid creams positioned from her valleys where her meadows begged, nursed the grimace of the sky. I recall her allowing the dress she wore falling- caressing the curve of the gentle dresser and bed. I submitted to the slippery touch of finger, thumb, and cuticle. I pressed into her and I felt the sprinting static and loosening, the deepening charge wilts around me. The fire of the night sky fumbles around me as I whimper in all subtlety. After an academic career stomping out metaphors, Roy Adams heard the muse and has now published several poems most recently in Vallum Contemporary Poetry and in Feathertale Humorous Literary Journal. Bigger than Weather An act or article possesses it or not. There is resiliency in planting a tree, in reading a book but, in the thirty-third degree, give me survival value first hand. Give me Bindings Rare and Beautiful: Limp Life Lessons with Shakespeare Elbert Hubbard half-pig with strap and copper buckle Tall Copy in Domestic Clarabarton Famous Board Alice -- turned edge (Based entirely on copy in “The Philistine, A Periodical of Protest,” December 1913. Most of the scrambled text is from advertisements for “Roycroft Books for Christmas” and for Ostermoor Matress Company) Bulwer-Lytton Praises Scott Tired of waiting for better tides I seize the present to express superfluous praise: The character your genius laid, who can emulate? The halo your moderation sets, who shall forget? Your playful art has conciliated the French enemy, soothed the envy that -- for better desert -- pursues calamities Your fame has attained that undying flame which glories bright my humble, dark and stormy night (Based on a dedication to Sir Walter Scott included as a preface to Bulwer-Lytton’s 1832 novel Eugene Aram. The phrase “dark and stormy night” is from Bulwer-Lytton’s 1830 novel Paul Clifford. Except for the phrase “dark and stormy night” all of the text is from the dedication; it has been thoroughly mixed in order to come up with a poem that does justice to the author who inspired a contest whose challenge is to “compose the opening sentence to the worst of all possible novels.”) Like a Bartender …off the clock, she’ll go in and have a cupcake or something, hear a ton of gossip. Sometimes the husbands will charge too much and put their mail on hold so their wives won’t find out. People tell her who’s cheating and who are behind in their mortgage. Like a bartender, they open up, tell her lots. “There’s definitely dirty laundry,” she admits, “Still,” she insists: “we’re all too old for hate...” (Note: Adapted from Bringing Mail and Hearing Secrets on Staten Island, by James Lowe, New York Times Magazine, April 26, 2015, p. 34.) The Rules Have Changed What we have created is a global postmodern Salem Witch Hunt: zealous inquisitors, not nettled by doubt, exert a relentless violence to conjure up a fool’s inferno born of the collective terrors of their own imaginations. We know from where we came. And we know where we are. We don’t know yet how to get back. Adapted from a review by Mark Danner of “‘Guantanamo Diary,’ by Mohamedou Ould Slahi” published in the New York Times Book Review, 20 January 2015. J.R. Sweeney writes to have fun and researches his Irish and French genealogy back to early AD. He lives in New England with his Father and Brother but the true " apple of his eye " are his terrific Daughter and Grandson http://celticorigins.yolasite.com/ Cambridge dictionary DEFINES LOLITA a young girl who has a very sexual appearance or behaves in a very sexual way gone lost Lolita this star would shine bright Lolita was tainted her star shone as night never to play with things that girls play push push Lolita all night and all day egos and money use her up fast they already know Lolita won’t last Ananya S Guha lives in Shillong in North East India. He is currently Regional Director at the Indira Gandhi National Open University. He has been writing poetry and publishing his poems for over thirty years. Appearing Only On Celluloid a hard time they had when the father berated drunkenly his wife son killed him son killed himself then the mother married again husband tried killing her so the story goes and the story of family lives will never cease here in this land appearing only on celluloid. Born 1971, Bristol, U.K., Matt won the prestigious erbacce prize for poetry in 2015 with his first collection Dystopia 38.10 (erbacce-press) his poems have been published in many journals such as The Journal, The Seventh Quarry, Black Light Engine Room, Prole, Ink, Sweat, and Tears, Lakeview International Journal, Five 2 One, Yellow Chair Review, Page and Spine, Harbinger Asylum, in 2016, Matt won the Into the Void Poetry Prize with his poem Elegy for Magdalena, and was taken on by erbacce press as one of six core members of the press, in 2017 his new chapbook Metropolis will be published by Hunting Raven Press. Matt has read at many events in the U.K, in Italy, and in Greece, and is the co-editor of The Angry Manifesto Magazine and runs his own Poetry events in his hometown of Bristol in the U.K. Imposter No matter if we fall asleep under an architect’s scorched city, red garages with empty cars – cackling arms on large clocks smouldering under white stars like rising blood stones; No shelter for the weak among us as we watch each other like a fox stalking a chicken in a pen; electric curtain peepers – smirking at cold strangers where an angel hooks her claws. Into the city that spits you out among the lost and slumbered; whispering melody exhaling these lepers if every raindrop that falls on this night is the sweat of all regret we’ll drink the murk of our inconsistencies; lead hope like a blind dog searching for our true existence forgiving the blood thirst from heavenly quadrants; reveal the guardians as imposters weaving tragic lies twisted in black and white. Metropolis Bright neon sign highlighting tower blocks where a forest once lay beneath our feet, urban garden full of burial sites for a fox digging his last collection of stored meats, only the sleepless hear the long seconds on a clock with pacing legs under running bed sheets. Sweat lingers and patterns a map on white sheets only the city silences the screams between blocks, hunting among the concrete for dead meat once a forest now a metropolis for the fox, pumping blood from the trees into mechanical feet this kingdom can no longer count the sun clock. Time is not told through shades but a ticking clock It’s foundations curved in metal and brass sheets, mortar and brick have multiplied these tenement blocks like serving the bone on a plate with no meat where the natural world is a concrete hive for the hungry fox, where a forest once lay beneath our feet. The Echo Chamber Every night I listen to a man going mad it starts with the moving of wardrobes the wincing cry through thin plasterboard, a building crescendo of expletives repeated again and again - At the voices that surround him, Every night I listen to a man going mad until one night the screams paused no sound of friction behind these thin walls; just rolling sirens melting in windows that blue and red repetition - Every night I listen to a man going mad. The Blue Wristband She ate chips in the dark hiding where light glides in the shadowed patches; as she waits. At night her façade breaks make-up running deep as that once ever so confident girl slides up her blue wristband; Each slice is a voice breaking on the shoreline each cut her inner struggle is mapped from back head of knuckles into her pale blue veins. When daylight shows the morning crest those blue wristbands linger of washed fragrance, smelling fresh No glimpse of blood her scars imprisoned only in the room that the girl with the blue wristband; feels she is most alive. Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. Her poem 'A Rose For Gaza' was shortlisted for the Theatre Cloud 'War Poetry for Today' competition 2014. This and many other poems, have been widely published on line and in print in some rather excellent publications. Find her at: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Lynn-White-Poetry/1603675983213077?fref=ts and lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com I Remember My Father I remember my father. Remember being carried high on his shoulders when he was walking into town. I remember that I was scared. I had never been carried on shoulders before. Was there a bus strike or no money for the fare? That I don’t remember. I remember my father sitting in a chair, a passenger on a bus or tram, as I collected his fare and gave him a ticket. He drove trams once and then later he cleaned them. I remember my father. Remember sitting on his knee looking at Rupert Bear books. I knew the stories by heart so people thought I could read and were very impressed. But I could only remember. I remember my father. I don’t need photographs to jog my memory, which is just as well since there are none, None of him whole, anyway, just one of his legs in loose grey trousers, sitting by me as I planted seeds in my first garden. Spinning I’m spinning a sphere of mirrored glass and I’m seeing my world differently. Upside down. Round and round. Making me dizzy. But perhaps it was always upside down and spinning out of control in any case. Grains of Time Time is running out for me And I sit here gazing into space Watching each grain trickle away. I can't catch them, Can't stop them, Can't slow them down Or speed them up. I can only live the moment As it passes. Caged It’s pleasant enough wandering these pathways flanked by tall the rectangular cages, each protected by a steel door with a security code. Even pleasanter later, when the cages are lower and less daunting enclosures of decorative brick or pricey stone surrounding quiet green spaces, each protected by metal gates with a security code. Occasionally a creature emerges, sometimes with barred teeth, clenched fists, raised claws. But mostly looking sad and out of condition. Lost inside itself. Poor things. Lost souls searching. Mostly though, they are seen outside, moving purposefully to a destination, not free to wander random paths. Or heading back to their cages, hoping there is no diversion which may leave them lost. Leave them in terror of the unforeseen The unforeseen circumstances that may arise from freedom. Freedom to be lost. Poor things. Lost souls in or out of their zoo. Nick Petrgalovic, 24, enjoys sharing experiences with other people, especially those whose backgrounds are unfamiliar or unknown to him, and he lives for human connection, testing boundaries, and challenging perspectives. He plans to teach English in Japan after completing a Master's degree at California State University Long Beach, and live a life of love and warm company. You can find his poetry at https://adventhorizon.wordpress.com/ “Mirrorlips” Time's cracking down and I'm feeling the pressure with a mess on every side of me my place of rest is a noisy chest of books and clothes and lost liberty Hope can't be found in a little blue book no matter where I look no matter where I look I see a great big pile of eternity The same three hundred sixty-five pages turning for ages and turning for ages until one day I think I spot the truth and it's with you sitting next to me as I read watching me feed my eyes with my lies up from the pages I take my trembling pen wrote some hen-pecked words I come to regret my rages and thrashing you held me against them listening to every mistake I could say my pet peeves my terrors my overambitions my self-serving ways my lost inhibitions my hates and my pains and all my clichés, with an accent on top To make it mine. Now I'm fine. I turned the next page where I'm under the pressure squirming in hell an old shell I've outgrown No wonder it hurts it's my just desserts for fucking lying so well. I get what I pay for and I'm a freeloader wannabe hobo who don't know where he wanna go where we wanna go with this, to a kiss to an altar? To a catastrophic moment of fault Her lips in my teeth it's a grosser image than You think It's dead skin and lip balm washed down the sink It's me on the brink, A misguided wink It's everything I love gone in a blink It's mothers with children too weak to feed It's daddys bodies too dead to stink Not one sound, not one note going by unheard But every one of them one third of what you wanna tell somebody And nobody gets the full tune They say I'll see you soon and then forget They think you're dry when you're wet cold when you're freezing hot when you're worn out That man's got power That man's got clout He can save us We are so small it's a wonder he's even thinking about us at all He stands tall wears bright He's a beacon of faith Burn him to get what you would from an eighth Won't mind, he's strong Never stumbled at all Never listened to my craving saving whispers at all Never felt the pain that I feel Seen the things that I seen listened and then thought about what I mean What I mean? What I do? What one of you has a clue Where I come from Who I am Is my shouting not sufficient for you I'm lost in a staring match and your eyes are closed You wouldn't see the difference if I looked at you down my nose or up at you from on my knees You clearly cannot see my love the mirror lips reflecting silent stony deafdumb dying love. “The First Steps of Winter” Cold grey ground smooth flat square divided town Lines point the way for my stainless steel kickped Lead me straight through a nest of insects Butterflies and ladybugs Spiders in their cottonwebs Warm wooden greenhouse keeps me safe for an hour or so, Lot of work pushing earth with my tired feet I got a mile and a mile more of highway Both ways in front and behind me for infinity, could be this time I’ve dug too deep Graves line the side of this long track of asphalt and I’ve lied in one of them every few hours Every time I close my eyes and hope I don’t see a light Its passing brightness warns me with the rolling of wheels Every time I close my eyes my body shakes free of all the heavy load burdens I been carrying with me Every time I close my eyes I hear the voice This is my choice This is my choice I chose my path A dead and frozen future Piled up in the snow like a feast for the bears My choice to be a fugitive, a runaway slave With his hopes and his worries lost Up in the air My choice to go alone Cause I always did before My choice to pay attention to a debt That I couldn’t ignore. I woke up, eyes blurry, feet cold and in a hurry For my newfound life Seen a Fall turn to ashes, white and snowy Know I’d wake up in a panic at the last few inches Long trip home through a flying metal cabin But not as long as the house I hung my hat in Sombre eyes took in the final playground where no children played that season Looking from high on a concrete perch Steps up and down across the elevated bridge Wrapped up in my shield of warmth Breath escaping up toward the mountains I’d never climbed By choice I’d come searching for my final descent, Well my time searching came and went Back the way I came, but the path was different I’d come seeking a rising sun and found myself a dawn, But when I took my leave I was following the dusk And in the twilight of my journey, Dreading my hometown I wondered with teary eyes what I’d found, I’d found my voice. “I am Afrayed” I am so afraid of defending myself of meeting resistance with resistance I would rather endure the pain defenseless. But I can't take it any more. I need my hands in front of me up in protection I need my shield at my back and at my side covering me I am afraid to defend myself and cut with my sword; I am afraid of hurting you, even as I suffer the pain. I am afraid of making you defend yourself, And I am more afraid that you won't, and that I'll cut you down, wound you with all my force. I am afraid of my power. I am afraid my power is less than it is, and I am afraid that it is more than I can handle. I am afraid I am more than this world can handle, and more importantly, I am afraid I am more than you can handle. I'm afraid you're afraid, afraid of me, afraid you're right, that I'm too much. I'm afraid if I'm right, that you are strong, as strong as me, Strong enough to be my shield and my sword, the kind I can swing at full force and you will not break, the kind that I can hold against my worst onslaughts and you will not break. I am afraid you are a sword in a stone, you cannot be moved, you cannot be taken, you will not budge, and I am the one whose hand can pull you out and I am not strong enough to free you. But I want to. I am afraid to be wrong, that you are happy where you're sheathed, that I am pulling you out of where you belong. And I am afraid of my fear, that I am right, that you are the one I need to slay my demons. I am afraid they are our demons, I fear our foes are our own. I am afraid to use you, to wield you. I'm afraid you'll chip, you'll scuff. When you bend I'm afraid you'll break, and I'm afraid that fear will twist me into a man more broken than I feel I am. I am afraid despite all this fear, I need to pull you loose, I need to free you. I need to use your edge, you are sharp. Sharp enough to pierce the plate of my own shell, to kill myself if only you can. I am afraid to rely on you as my armor, and as my blade, that you are my last line of defense, and my fiercest attack, and that after you, there is nothing on my chest there is nothing in my hand that all I'll have to hold is myself, or the dust where I lie in the grave that slips though my fingers. I can't live with this fear. I must be brave. And if you break? If I bend you too far or hold you too close, that your double edge will cut my chest, pressed against me by the force of life which I am dying to resist. I am afraid to be alive with you and die without you, and I am afraid to live if it means your death. And I am afraid to bury you with me when I fall if you can still fight another day, unbent and unbroken, because you are the one, the strongest one that opens me up from the tip of my chin to the bottom of my heart and the hardest one who sustains the worst challenge I seek to face. I cannot penetrate your shield with my own hands, and I'm afraid I must take your sword and plunge it into you, into yourself, because I am weak, and cannot defense myself, so I must see how you fare on your own, and that is only fair to me, I am afraid. Lieutenant Pretty sure I'm going to scream every single god damn crack of voice It won't be contained much more and it doesn't seem like a choice Pretty sure I'm going to blow pound the walls full of holes White prison mirror shining frame surrounds my head Knowing what I know, I can't put a fist through that tomb I'd make a mess and that won't go So I'll babble in my own echoes. I don't need a wound to tell me what lies beyond, the wall has its looking holes and I can see tiny pinpricks letting light look back at me. They drizzle sounds and trickle scents remind me of my memories lead me to the edge, and there I claw, looking for a line to draw on the peaceful prison wall that turns my message of escape back to me, but upside-down. I read it, lost my own words confused by myself. These walls are thick, many-layered, and here I am safe to scream my many voices unafraid that those beyond will hear Ndaba Sibanda`s work has been featured in several publications including The Piker Press, Bricolage, The Dying Goose, Whispering Prairie Press, Saraba Jim, Outside In Literary & Travel Magazine ,The Metric, Unlikely Stories and Silver Birch Press. At Long Last People were singing and running about on the streets. They were celebrating their victory over an obstinate tick. Who could have imagined such a greedy and sticky tick could be kicked off the privates of their cows and sheep? They were sending a clear message to all the bugs and ticks on the African continent that it was time to shape up or ship out. It is not easy to see why—you know horse-flies and the like are bad. These are a nightmare for humans because they make life outdoors rough. They have a bad feeding habit of transferring blood-borne diseases from one animal to another—besides of course, torturing their victims. Africa has wonderful grazing pastures but our beasts are starving and weak. These modern bugs—with their families and fans and friends-are draining our cows. Our beasts are hemorrhaged to death every day by these unkind and bloody suckers. One thing that drives people crazy is that the bugs do not accept blame for their mess. Our patriotic pest controllers have always said horse-flies are a menace because they tend to reduce growth rates in cattle and lower the milk output of cows in Africa. “They are colonisers too. Don`t be fooled. We conquered some bunch of bugs from afar a long time ago, and we celebrated—little did we know that we have local bloodsuckers.” The insect specialists added, “These bugs lie and put all the blame on unseen, distant suckers. Like cutting blades and thieves, they lap up the blood that flows from the wounds of our cows”. A Clumsy Flimsy Flip-flop That obstinate tick, that ectoparasite has made a u-turn, it says the backsides of mammals are too sweet to let go of. It claims it has the inalienable right to the tender parts of birds, to feed on the blood of helpless reptiles and amphibians—forever. Is there justice in this world, on this beautiful African continent-- when ticks do as they wish even if they were fairly rejected? Before the tick’s shameless u-turn, of course some people danced too early, they forgot they were dealing with a heartless mite. They sang too loudly songs of justice like a careless hunter who frightens away the very animal he wants to catch. It was as if they were confiding a secret to an unworthy person-- is that not as good as carrying grain in a bag with a hole? Where were the advisers? There is a Gambian proverb that says: a fly that has no one to advise it, follows the corpse into the grave. Maybe they were celebrating with the idea that since the tick had been rejected and had accepted that rejection, it was a new creature. Why did they forget that timeless Gambian saying that says: no matter how long a log may float in the water, it will never become a crocodile? What will happen? How will they claim their blood back when a Gambian proverb says: if a donkey kicks you and you kick back, you are both donkeys? |
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