NDABA SIBANDA - POEMS
Ndaba has contributed to the following anthologies: Its Time, Poems For Haiti- a South African anthology, Snippets ,Voices For Peace and Black Communion. Heedited Free Fall (2017). The recipient of a Starry Night ART School scholarship in 2015, Sibanda is the author of Love O’clock, The Dead Must Be Sobbing,Of the Saliva and the Tongue, Cutting-edge Cache: Unsympathetic Untruth and Football of Fools. His work is featured in The New Shoots Anthology,The Van Gogh Anthology edited by Catfish McDaris and Dr. Marc Pietrzykowski, Eternal Snow, A Worldwide Anthology of One Hundred Poetic Intersections with Himalayan Poet Yuyutsu RD Sharma scheduled for publication in Spring/Summer 2017 by Nirala Press and Seeing Beyond the Surface Volume II. Sibanda has contributed to more than thirty published books.
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An Ability That Shines Like Gold
Thanks to a creative German doctor
who initiated a sports contest in 1948
for Second World War combatants
who had injuries to their backbones,
one of the largest global sports events
roared into life, and since then it takes place
every two years alongside the Olympic Games.
The Paralympic Games is an event at which great athletes
fly their national flags high as they exhibit their sublime skills
at their best sport in spite of a common thread marked by a disability.
When Paralympians compete in swimming and rowing events in the water
or on the track in wheelchair- racing and on blades, or in wheelchair basketball,
and rugby on a court or in skiing on mountain slopes and cycling in the velodrome-
what the spectators marvel at is pure world-class sportsmanship and individual ability!
Of Pure Pressure And Pure Pleasure
The heart and blood
of untainted beauty
for low blood pressure
The sight is the rate that
sings songs of wonder
Exciting fear`s prompted
into the heart and spine
to the zone of adventure
Venture into a bungee jump
and experience a real life
Make a majestic fall into the Falls,
grace the adventure capital of Africa
For there`s victory for the adrenalin
in the exquisiteness of the Victoria Falls!
Wringing And Scheming Hearts
it was a rather frosty Wednesday morning
ten-ish ,her moves had a sluggish touch to them
vacuuming, humming, tidying up the living room
the least thing she expected was a serpent
there it was
long, lazy, gliding on the floor, at the wall`s edge
“sekaNe, a snake, under the sofa!” she yelled
he lept up
and made several nervous attempts at slicing up
the risky reptile but it kept on slithering away
when the intruder was finally chopped apart
with a block from a disused wooden room divider
and ferried lifeless in a yellow plastic bag and dumped
in a grassy and bushy area of the suburb, echoes started
they bare happiness and smiles when you buy those things
but I know deep inside them their hearts are bleeding spite
how does a snake enter a closed room and hide under a sofa
on a tiled and cold floor, and when did it enter?—“aunt” doubted
one theorist guessed the intruder could have entered the room
earlier during the day or during the evening when the door was open
that neighbor who called herself a real realist and the wife`s real aunt
(by the way, everyone is everybody `relative in the high-density suburbs!)
was not convinced by the theorist `s assumptions surrounding the snake saga
how does a snake enter a room without anybody seeing it, is this a snake really?
the theorist said he was not an expert in the affairs and behaviors of snakes
but he knew that a snake could sense and follow the presence of rodents
the man of the house expressed his doubts saying he was shocked
the next day to discover that the bag was no longer at the dumpsite!
that was not a mere snake, forget about open or closed doors,
the owner of that snaky trinket must have fetched it, “aunt” said
Stha`s Chosen Dilemma
Stha says you expect me to be your lover
And keep you company, keep you happy.
But you treat me like a collapsible chair!
A chair you slump onto when there`s no softer one.
I want you to hold me in public every time –
not just when you’re tired of her
or when she’s not around
and you tiptoe to me.
Like a camp chair, you collapse me into everything:
cousin, neighbor, school mate, study mate, even spiritual sister –
depending on who we bump and where.
But when I tell other people we are chameleons,
they have no sympathy for me;
they don`t see why I cannot keep you out my life.
JD DeHART - POEMS
JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. He has a poetry collection, The Truth About Snails, available from RedDashboard and blogs about books at readingandlitresources.blogspot.com.
The wooly mammoth’s real name
was Andrew. He once aspired to
be a pro wrestler – a perfect fit,
his glaring eyes beneath a pocket
of fur, the tusks at either side of his
mouth, threatening silently. Images
of red spandex flash in his dreams.
But then the Human Starfish tried
a new trick with one of his tentacles,
and the Mammoth was down for the count,
broken leg and all. Just like that, an
immense being toppled over,
now living on the sustenance of daytime
television and boxes of candy.
Mother is always upstairs making him
a microwave dinner. There’s something
powerful about her he can’t put his finger
on. He spends his days in the basement
(the stairs are now much too rickety to
support his weight to go much of anywhere
else, anyway). Dad is who the hell knows
where these days. Resting in ice, maybe.
It is a wild life of breakfast
at noon. Every now and then, fear in her
voice, mother will ask: Randall, are you
going out today?
After correcting her about his name,
Mammoth insists that, no he will be
riding the couch again today. Mother
likes it this way, breathing a sigh
of contented relief.
Extinction is staved off yet another
listless while, and the channel surfing
fends off the call of battle.
I was flattened to a pancake
by all the worries of life –
I slide right by, lay low,
live the life from a narrow view
Turning sideways, you mostly
miss me. It’s okay.
Not a bad kind of life, really.
No one notices me, but then
that’s a lot of stories, isn’t it?
I used to be in control, a full plump
form until a witch cast a spell.
That old so-and-so story.
She was either a witch or an ex-guitarist
from an angry girl band.
Either way, the spell worked and now
I slide by, unnoticed, unscathed,
a slender witness to the fatted world.
See the writer now
in the otherwise placid
evening, a spark now and then,
Seizing on another verb,
attempting to shape it to a line
the elastic sound of a
RAE MARIE LUNA - POEMS
Rae Marie Luna is a poet, fiction writer, storyteller & sometimes playwright in Massachusetts @raemarieluna
@ the Druid Pub