MOTHER EARTH is broken from  incessant  decadent wars carelessly perpetuated by mindless ,vicious political imbeciles. Our natural wealth  plundered  by  greedy ,gluttonous   economic dare-devils, imbibing  crude oil and fresh blood .   Warlord-ism set the suns of our freedom, our earth is torn naked   . War is ravaging the beauty of African diamond fields ,We are now Wretched Vagabonds . Warlords are frying  peace in oil springs of  the  Gulf. Child Soldiers  machete-mutilating  innocent wombs in pastures of Sudan. Sons  dance to the soprano tune of the gun  and sing along to the baritone thud  of grenades everyday of God.  Xenophobia boiled cousins  for  a dinner of  chopped souls. Somewhere inside the pockets of Africa , the gun throb speaks louder than ballot . Racism and Tribalism are twins gnawing   limbs of peace without restraint  . Greed  buried peace and love in unmarked graves. We rise every dawn with bullets stuck in our rib boxes and horizons weeping blood tears**************** . This  special collection is  a#globalpoetrycallforpeace . The poems , stories and short fiction have been adapted from MIOMBOPUBLISHING and other INTERNATIONAL ARCHIVES . This global poetry collection will be soon  officially published Online and inPrint . GLOBAL POETS  say , the SECOND NAME OF EARTH is Peace  and that HUMANITY  is  a balanced diet with PEACE as a special and nutritious ingredient:( MBIZO CHIRASHA is the Editor of the SECOND NAME of EARTH is PEACE-a global poetry call for peace Anthology 2020)

 

 

 


 

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EDUCATION

Don’t ask me to know your trees
or the green statues of famous men.
Don’t ask me to assume polite silence
before gray old churches or to join in your search
for the meaning of proud dolmenic ruins.
In me, you find a heretic from birth.
Born too soon, set aside in an incubator
to watch the nurses fidget and grin
through tight walls of glass.
I required special air from the start.
Not mine the orderly hive
of broad-mouthed babies in their beds,
the immediate succor
of a mother’s swollen breast.
I slid loyally into years of asthma
and staying at home,
Instead of school’s compulsions and games
I petted baby chickens to death
in an excess of love and counted
the squares on the ceiling over my bed.
I feasted on solitude all youth long,
Solitude and the uneven friendship
of rock and roll songs.
I’m a rough peasant. That’s right.
Bullshitting myself
Out of business

LINDA CHOWN

LINDA CHOWN is a poet and critic. Originally from Berkeley, she lived in the Bay Area until going to Spain and teaching there for some 15 years. Now living in Michigan, she is professor emerita at Grand Valley State University. She has published work in Signs, Numero Cinq, Foothill Quarterly, and many other journals. There is also a book comparing novelist Carmen Martín Gaite and Doris Lessing called Narrative Authority and Homeostasis in Selected Writings of Carmen Martín Gaite and Doris Lessing, as well as extensive writings on Lessing, Woolf, Martin Gaite, Willa Cather, and Coetzee. Recent reviews and poems, including “On The Other Side of Language, appear in Numero Cinq’s archives.

 

 BETWEEN LANGUAGE AND MYTH

 

In the garden of light, I stand,

between language and myth.

Strands of wild green words

weave irresistible vines to climb.

I find the rules of grammar written

in the language of cellular memory,

strung like seedlings and pollen dust

around my bare and willing neck.

Each day I walk to the quarries

to hard mine for the sweetly lyrical.

I blister from digging in hot sands

and hard stone for parables.

The walls that bind my heart

are broken by the solace of

language spun on a vision quest.

I stride the hills of my heartland.

I write as though the fables are

my only real nourishment –

perhaps they are

Jamie-Dedes-WEB

   JAMIE DEDES, a former feature writer, columnist, and associate editor of a regional employment publication, currently runs The Poet by Day, an information hub for poets and writers. She is the managing editor of The BeZine published by The Bardo Group, a virtual arts collective that she founded.  She is a weekly contributor to Beguine Again, a site showcasing spiritual writers. Her work is featured in a variety of publications and on sites, including: Ramingo’s Porch, Vita Brevis Literature,Compass Rose, Connotation Press, The Bar None Group, Salamander Cove, Second Light, I Am Not a Silent Poet, Meta / Phor(e) /Play, and California Woman. Her poetry was recently read by Northern California actor Richard Lingua for Poetry Woodshed, Belfast Community Radio. Jamie Dedes was featured in a lengthy interview on the Creative Nexus Radio Show where she was dubbed “Poetry Champion.”

 

ENDANGERED SPECIES

Shape shifting
ignorance hunting man,
so afraid of enlightenment,
you spin oppression.
Deception is your tool to plunder.

You fear voices in the wilderness
crossing rivers, revealing your stench,
your vortex of bile rotting your gut.
Words of poets
synthesize with sun,
magnify your indifference.

Isolated,
we see what you are made of.
Villages starve amid dust.
Rivers are dammed upstream;
neither life nor money flow,
leaving grasslands dry
where water falls in tears.

Poets sense your pulse;
we are leopards of the night
searching phantom land of corporate jungle.
Seething against silk curtains
with eyes on manicured nails.

Leopards stretch
on the prowl, make midnight runs
down cityscapes lit by full moon,
rub against wine bars and traffic lights
as taxis swish through rain puddles
filling asphalt cracks.

Claws mark trails
denied at press conferences.
Invade marble hunting ground.
A rebellion of words blow away
the corrupt dictators of the world
and climate deniers
clenching plastic cups
and sipping morning coffee
on 44th-floor window
made-to-order metropolis view
of bodies eking out a living. Starvation.
Bullets ricochet killing a mother
carrying home bread.

Leopards rush around corners,
leap across balconies, sniff desks
finding jungle flowers
fossilized amid stoic faces.
Cats hunt down hallways, panting,
tongues hanging low
knowing night must fall
and somebody left the light on

JAMES FEATURED PHOTO

JAMES COBURN – is an Oklahoma poet in the United States of America. Coburn has always valued the subtext of life and seeks to reveal its undercurrents. He believes indifference is the enemy of man as it is the benefactor of ignorance, racism and xenophobia. Coburn is currently collaborating with Nairobi poet Brian Kasaine on a book of poetry. His first book of poetry “Words of Rain” was published in 2014. The book was a finalist for an Oklahoma Book Award. In 2016, ten of his poems against terrorism and to save the Sunderbans (wetlands) were published in “Onnyodhara” (The Alternative Way) Eid-special issue festival edition in association with “Anushilon” (The Culture & Literature Society) the National Literary Organization of Bangladesh. Coburn is a 2013 inductee of the Oklahoma Journalism Hall of Fame. He has been published in several anthologies. Three of his poems were published in Canada’s Tuck magazine in 2017-18. He has served as a resident poet at NonDoc.com.

 

JOYFUL NIGHT
Moon drops, snowdrops, raindrops tenderly eavesdrop on my teardrops. Broken heart and my teardrops will not thwart your departing since fate establishes a timeframe of your natural life.
Healthcare and prayers powerless to alleviate your destiny; therefore, my teardrops stream in the dark.
You are beyond holding me during the night and protecting me from all the fright. Smooches, embraces, and the delight of passion is a passing memory. My teardrops tumble down every day.
Where have you gone my robust and handsome man? It was not lust that kept us in sync, but the unique coherence of our connection. The disconnect has arrived and my teardrops stream during the night.
Inhale and exhale one more time for the reason the rhythm of your breath is almost gone. Eavesdrop on my heart and the beats are in cadence with my teardrops.

(Joyful Night (Nov 2019)

MELISSA BEGLEY

MELISSA BEGLEY

I am from the South in the USA, but have lived in many states and abroad. My friends and colleagues have encouraged me to become a writer for the reason I have a wild imagination and that I am deemed as pleasantly eccentric. Magically, the past couple of years the manifestation of poets and authors have entered into my world. I was astonished and humbled when Mbizo Chirasha expressed interest. The individuals that are distinguished and honorable wordsmiths convert words into the magnificent power of describing heartlessness, tragedy, hate, love, war, poverty, unfairness, humor, pain, and wisdom. My background is in the healthcare industry and I served as a Patient Advocate, trainer for new employees to be Patient Centered and Patient Focused, and my favorite assignment was the backup Elder Navigator.

 

 

A DIRGE OF HOPE TO SUDAN

 

Sudan the great has fallen
A million salty tears cannot fill the Nile
The land of giants has dwarfed into shadowy ghosts
Red eyes cannot light the cooking stones
Offended spirits roam the land in search of their former selves
Chaos reign, the scorching sun cooks animal carcasses
The calves have died with milk on the teats
Vultures long dead are not invited to the feast
The dead cannot bury the dead
Lord of tears, rescue me.

Death has camped in Sudan
The source of the River Nile has been defiled into a desert
The wicked Janjaweed beat death drums
The cobweb of impunity weaves corruption, greed, war
Foreign arms grind machinery of destruction
Endless power hunger games rip open wombs of pregnant mothers
Isn’t Killer games, the enemy’s gain?
I cry but my tears have no gain
Not until Sudan rises again.
I sob.

Sudan’s jails are filthy layers of stifled innocent souls
Charged with imaginary crimes from the head of a deranged government
A decayed tooth whose loose system leaves toothless smelly mouths, caves
Till when, Mama? Till when?
Peace talks are the rugs on which berserk leaders wipe their bloody feet
Caked soles of feet in Bloody shoes soaked in rivers of blood
Bashir the wicked jigger has fed on the flesh of his people for eons
His fleecy naughty bedbug toy guns flash a weeping trail of destruction
Not even the highest court in the world can hold him
The ICC, the leaders’ kalongolongo children’s game
I cry.

Sudan’s crisis is the cry of many rivers
Sudan’s Sickler, harvests death like a bottomless pit
Sudan has become an open grave
Loose shooting canon, fire spitting snakes
Life mocker, get away from me
The Buzz of a million houseflies is your favourite song
What day of the week, were you born?
You are a shame to the universe
Your brother’s death does not stop your sleeping pangs
Your children, what? Child soldiers.
The leaders of Sudan have no brothers or sisters
Only enemies.
I cry.

Sudan’s poverty is the joy of the colonizer
The master reigns supreme
Our leaders have opened the granary to strangers
Their green colored forest clothes the death signature
Sudan’s helpless tears only dry up the barren soil.
Sudan’s fake eyelashes have fallen
Adults cry like children and there are no children to cry
Darfur exposes the raw jaundiced eye of horror and injustice

Africa, North, South, East, West
Lamentations. Lamentations. Lamentations.
Sudan crisis is the cry of rivers of blood and tears
Rivers that flow in red blood and mixes with rich oil
Discolored by wars of greed, gold and oil

Sudan crisis is the cry of deserts
Turned into quarries of hidden guns
Sparkling in deadly smiles
As government eats her children
Sudan crisis, the naked cry of the earth
Earth filled with limbless bodies, ashes
Earth cannot recognize her own and feeds them to the worms
The justice train is slow no matter how fully you oil it
Women of Sudan arise
Save your children from these monsters who occupy state houses
Hold your wombs and breasts, invoke the power within
The children you suckled and nurtured have turned against you
The children have slipped from the nest and become monsters

You cannot give up
You must not give up
Mothers of Sudan, arise and claim your space
You have suffered enough
The senseless leaders have declared Sudan an orphan
Daughters of Sudan arise and fight back
The battle is yours, my sisters
Our hopes lie in you
Poetry Nation, Arise
You are the last weapon left standing
To rescue our sister Nation
Sudan.
I cry.

OMWA OMBARA - Consul Kenya

 AUTHOR OMWA OMBARA –The Editor in Chief at Tujipange Africa Media, a diaspora based Magazine in United States of America. A Consul at Large at poetasdelmundo.com /POETS OF THE WORLD .A motivational speaker. Writers Consultant with her amazing projects, Walks and Talks and Tips for Writers Show .Omwa is a political Asylee for seven years. An International investigative journalist, poet, vocalist, performing and visual artist. She is author of a Memoir, “God’s Child on The Run.” .Published in several anthologies including Our Secret Lives, Holding the Center and other journals of International acclaim. Omwa is a former Bureau Chief, The Standard Group and has published over 4000 articles in her journalism career spanning 20 years. Her passion for standing up to power and corrupt leaders in the media circles is unmatched. Her experience in journalism spans from more than two decades. She stands firm against the abuse of power, corruption and mass killings .she is an advocate of true journalism. She comes aboard with her vast understanding of global humanity issues, journalistic experiences and women rights knowledge. She holds a postgraduate diploma in journalism and mass communication and a BA degree from the University of Nairobi.

 

 

ZIMBABWEAN VOICES

That stolen flame of the voices cryin’ freedom
Causin’ shattered voices
With clouds of chaos pretending purpose
And false doctrines dictate
Shallow hopes that embrace
Talk of freedom and feelin’ secure

In the shadows linger shards of hauntin’ security
Folks with two faces and false freedoms
Cryin’ loud from maddened minds and maddened voices
And an impasse point of purpose
Sling slogans of false secure dictates
And passing fancy lending false embrace

To the dreamers of wanderin’ embraces
And holdin’ hopes and huntin’ security
Calling to the winds with their dreams of freedoms
And sing songs of dreaming voices
Of the greater good and aim the purpose
Toward the echoes of conscious dictates

Partner freedoms with reasonable dictates
Offer their brethren kind embraces
Sing new songs of solid security
And carry dreams of fairness and freedom
Cause to pen truths and sound their voices
And call them to the grand purpose

 

And find that common purpose
That sifts all the slinging dictates
And carry that kind embrace
With certain truths and certain security
In the melting pot of basic freedoms
And echo the dreams of their voices

And grant them their laughin’ voices
With honest and powerful purpose
And hide the unfair dictates
With cool hearts that offer empty embraces
And shed the land of insecurity
And breed the dreams of fair freedoms

Dreamers with those freedom speaking voices
With power of purpose to dismiss cruel dictates
And all embrace signs of stability and security

tracy echoes

 TRACY YVONNE BREAZILE is a Writer living in the United States of America. She was granted the opportunity to serve as Writer/Mentor in Residence with the 2018 Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Mentorship Program, originated by Mbizo Chrirasha.Breazile studied Language and Literature with a concentration in Professional Writing at Columbus State University, Columbus, Georgia, USA. The graphic images collected here are selected from the 2018 Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Mentorship Program Poetic Rhetoric and Composition Workbook she created to aid participants seeking to learn about poetic forms and functions. She would like to help people voice their feelings and attitudes about the many conflicts and dilemmas that frequent the human frame. She is currently working with Mbizo Chrirasha in hopes to inspire writers to create short stories. The program aims to discover the mechanics of the short story and illustrate some of the various genre and styles that a writer might like to utilize in their stories. Peace is her passion. She is currently working on a collection of poetry echoing culture and customs of Africa. This work includes definitions and examples of various forms and functions of poetry as it has evolved through the ages. It is her hope that freedoms of speech encompass the entire globe. She would like to help people voice their feelings and attitudes about their conflicts and dilemmas through poetry. Her poetry is included in anthologies such as “Expressions of the Heart.”


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DARKENED HEART

It is dark in color

Dark like cobra

Blood became liquor

Darkned heart is made.

It was pure like silver

Lightening like a star

Moonlight was its smile

But now it is darkned by the

Somber moon from above.

I wonder when is its redemption

I miss the flashing smile like a diamond

In the sun. I miss the pure heart as it was

Darkness became natural.

I pray for the sun to shine up on it.

It is just a diamond in the dirt,

Once washed,  purity is eternal.

No more darkness in it.

akimanaAKIMANA DIVINE is Rwandan poetess who draws her creativity from her life experience. Poetry to her is more than words but therapy. she has been published is different online magazines.She is a volunteer at afflatus Africa, as a social media manager. The organisation which aims at empowering the African youth through reading and mentor ship. She is a council of poets of the world to Rwanda and a member of different poetry societies on Facebook.

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HAND BITTERS

Always snap at the hand that feeds,

cossets, cuddles and hugs, fists, hits and kicks.

Oppose, depose, make of it yourself.

Pull on the leash, snap the manacle,

challenge this ships captain,

sit on your plastic chair.

Tell your voices you’ll decide yourself.

If she does not wake you know your job.

Before she closed her eyes

she rehearsed tasks that you must be complete.

How to empty her home, sell it,

pass your childhood on to others.

Be firm In what must be done. Make yourself.

PAUL BROOKES

PAUL BROOKES is a shop assistant, after employment as a security guard, postman, admin. assistant, lecturer, poetry performer, with “Rats for Love”, his work included in “Rats for Love: The Book”, Bristol Broadsides, 1990. First chapbook “The Fabulous Invention Of Barnsley”, (Dearne Community Arts, 1993). Recently published in Blazevox, Nixes Mate, Live Nude Poems, The Bezine, The Bees Are Dead and others. “The Headpoke and Firewedding” (Alien Buddha Press, 2017) illustrated chapbook, “A World Where” (Nixes Mate Press, 2017) “The Spermbot Blues” (OpPRESS, 2017), “She Needs That Edge” (Nixes Mate Press, 2018), “Port Of Souls” (Alien Buddha Press, 2018). Forthcoming “Stubborn Sod” (Alien Buddha Press) “Please Take Change (Cyberwit.net) Editor of “The Wombwell Rainbow Interviews” with writers.


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GRASSES OF THE NIGHT
In the grass of the night,
in the sleeping mystery,
in the expiring pencil

to the blue notebook,

I outline the sunset

of the upcoming summer,

of the smouldering sweet

noon of the grass.

In the twilight of the night

I catch the sunrise

with the fragrant milk.

MIRO34

MIROSLAVA PANAYOTOVA graduated from the Plovdiv University majoring in Bulgarian philology. Her whole lot of poems, stories, tales, aphorisms, essays, criticisms, translations, articles and interviews in periodicals and collections. PANAYOTOVA’s books include Nuances(1994), God of the senses( 2005), Whisper of leaves( 2017), Green feeling( 2018); Two collection of stories: An end and then a beginning( 2017), The path of love(2018),Two eBooks: Laws of communications /aphorisms/( 2018) Old things /poetry/(2018).She is a member of the Union of the Independent Bulgarian Writers and a member of the International Association of Independent Writers “Sodrujestvo”.


 

 

BOUND TO THE  STREET

Ragged and funny

In dire need of money

I bruise the pot-holed streets of the city

Maiming the waste-filled alleys and dirty

Daily I play hide and seek with death on the razor-sharp edge of humanity.

Once I had a home

Now I cannot pay the dues

Once I went to college

Now I cannot pay the fees

Once I had a wife

Now I cannot afford the price

Poor the result of no economic emancipation

Bound to the street because of some people’s creation

In a vacuum-filled belly I try the robber’s invention

Oouch! I cry in incaceration

This cry , my cry, I cry

Bound to the street, is it God’s case

Bound to the street, the street my place

Bound to the street, the street I hate

 

Eyes closed, tears drop

The drama of my sleeping mystery

unfolding before my mental eyes like a tapestry

I ravish and languish in hunger

Feeding on left-overs

Left by generous shoppers

Hungry I was, am and still will be

The history but of themhitherto societies is a history of class struggle

and exploitation. How shall I leave the street struggle

In such a society tailor-designed to suffer the helpless

Where the should-be-helpers

Are the pioneers of the exploitation,

Suppression and oppression of the defenceless

As for me and my street-mates

We will travel along singing a song

The song, my cry.

Bound to the street, is it God’s case

Bound to the street, the street my place

Bound to the street, the street I hate

 

I come from far further

I am not a bird of your further

You are a son to your father

You are your mother’s daughter

I have non to call father or mother

Neither to call sister nor brother

But pay no attention to criticism like weather

Rather lets read the holy book together

Ang gather as a congregation together

The bread as you gather

Lets break share and eat together.

Until we harness a new philosophy

I will always cry

This cry my cry.

Bound to the street, is it God’s case

Bound to the street, the street my place

Bound to the street, the street I hate

Lambada

ROBSON ISAAC SHOES LAMBADA is the National Coordinator of Zimbabwe Poets for Human Rights, an artistic collective of wordsmiths tackling human rights issues in Zimbabwe and globally. Lambada is a writer, performance poet, critic and arts administrator also working with the only literature festival in Zimbabwe (LitFest Harare) as its Festival Administrator. He was born in Kadoma in 1981 where he started his artistic career at Jameson High School. He has performed his work to several audience in Zimbabwe at almost all arts festivals that include the Harare International Festival of Arts (HIFA), Shoko Festival, Dzimbahwe Arts Festival, Ukubambana Youth Peace Festival and  Protest Arts International Festival where he was an artistic consultant responsible for the spoken word segment. Shoes Lambada has traveled with his work to countries that include among others United States of America, Germany, Netherlands, South Africa, India, Zambia, Malawi and Namibia.

 

 

DIRGES MY COUNTRY TAUGHT ME
Canto I

Half despondent,
Half persistent,
I huff and puff the smoke of my exhaustion;
This is what we were born for:
We are not cankers that chew the Rose
But maggots for carrion,
Half-dead statesmen
Spinning yarns and yore of lore
And draw at the wisp of foe
Gone, gone long ago before I saw
The shore beyond my mother’s door.

Long the smoke of that war
Has cleared,
Our fog the halitosis of stale ambition
And bread that beguiled the dead,
Enthroned us in their stead;
Cradled by the womb for the tomb.
So this is what we were born for.
I raise my eyes to the shore of yesteryear,
Not a decade past but history repeats itself,
Cooking oil evaporates on the shelf,
The fuel queues winding serpents of witchcraft
Snorting the powdered corpses of the hordes
Who trusted in gods and the guided choice;
Fool who waged papers against veteran killers!

Who’s to blame while we brandish pens at eternity?
Pattering black ink on darker canvass of perpetuity?
What is vanity?
In a moment of clarity I sought myself;
After an eon of contemplation I knew I was not lost
Though the ground be familiar
In the trek of a circle. I knew I was not lost
For I have come again to undeny
What my eye once vivified but I
Chose blindness. I saw I was not lost
For he who claims eternity
Must first own a moment.
I dug myself into the filth of the day,
The excrement of banal tongues
That call the truth of my eye a lie;
The ancient demagogues whose hearts pump the blood
Of our unformed offspring, cast with ambition
Into the pit of oblivion and never-to-be.

Beatrice, I am in hell, don’t come find me.
I and my kin of Ignavi sweetness,
For I saunter and wander behind Cockerel’s banner.
The wasps that wrap their sting around my flesh
Tattoo the truth I must transcribe.
So give me your shroud Beatrice,
Press it to my wounds and read my truth,
Unlearn the rhythm of my name, in-turn
Unbury me from your heart
Where my best is interred,
And fill your lap with God’s moulding clay.
I am condemned Beatrice,
By my coward ways and meandering words
To this vestibule of hell.
Sword and scabbard are one
Even while blood is wine
As they dine on the foetuses of a hope
We set to the moon when we could dream.
Turn from me my oh Beatrice;
Have you not read the post at Acheron’s edge?
“Abandon hope all ye who enter here?”

PAN17

PHILANI AMADEUS Nyoni was one of the adjudicators for Daughter Destined for Greatness, a literary competition also focused on the girl-child’s story in 2018. He has received his fair share of brass in his career, most recently his prose was shortlisted for the 2018 African Writers’ Award. In 2014 after recommendation by Man Booker shortlisted Noviolet Bulawayo he contributed to the Caine Prize for African Writing anthology and remains the only poet to ever receive National Arts Merit Awards for Literature and Spoken Word along with a World Record for The Most Shakespearean Sonnets in a Manuscript since the age of twenty-six. Although he came to the fore with the publication of his award-winning debut, “Once A Lover Always A Fool”, Nyoni’s first taste of (literary) brass was the Girls’ College Literary Competition adjudicated by John Eppel.

 

 

POISONOUS INJECTIONS

From the corridors of doom.
The wicked smell of burnt hopes.
Like a blasted bomb.
Hovering, darker than black.
Blinding the skies.
Are choppers pouring stench.
Spraying the perfume called tear gases.
So cruel, with their speed.
Cutting life like a red hot sword.

From what was once a golden sceptre.
Blood is flowing, colouring everything.
Vomit being the special meal.
Bathing in salty sweat.
Quenching thirst by pus.
The flesh being ravaged strategically.
Ohhhh the skeletons are dancing.
Their voices so muffled and terrible.
Soaring every grain of land.
No helper, their brains scattered.

The phantasmal scenario.
Blood taken for toasts.
By the vampires.
Smiling for a mile in jolly.
The human flesh being bried.

Chuckling while they put salt.
Which tastes like the pepper.
To dare that you are in pain.
You face the wrath from Hades.
Licenced by hell.

Miss you, cherish you.
The once great blemis.
Of peace and serenity

chrispah-munyoro

CHRISPAH MUNYORO is currently a student of Applied Art and Design, Graphics and Website Programming. at Kwekwe Polytechnic College in Zimbabwe . Munyoro is a talented writer, journalist and a dedicated Design Artist. She is natural linguist, fluent in many languages among them English, Shona, Esperanto, Setswana, Swahili, Italiana and Yoruba. She began as a columnist writing feature articles in the Gweru Times in Midlands Province Capital of Zimbabwe. She has worked as a Midlands Chapter Chairperson of the Zimbabwe Association of Freelance Journalists. Munyoro was once a Zimbabwe Representative at Zone IV Regional Youth Games in 2014 Bulawayo in the boxing discipline. The multi-disciplinary artist is registered under AIBA the international body of boxing. The Writer, Artist, Poet, Journalist and athlete has been writing poetry since her tender years and she has participated in various writers ,poetry ,journalism and sports workshops.

 

 

WOMAN IN THE MIRROR

Woman in the mirror stares back,
at  pained confusion of a
distraught soul,
transfixed as if in a trance

what years and aging effected.

Thy plumpness and roundness
receded,
leaving behind a withered frame
for a body

mourning prized possessions envy
of all who once admired.

Woman in the mirror you couldn’t
be so wrong,
beauty does fade,the person
within stays the same,

don’t pity me,oh my oh my my…

This body is a celebration of life
of a young girl who played in the
backyard,making mud-pies,
caking her face with dirt,
giggling and laughing no dreams yet

and when she became a woman
she had so much ambition and passion
noone could stop her even if they tried

Such delightfulness, an opportunity to
create life in one’s womb
to hear the first cry of a babe
having its mouth suckle at one’s breast
while their small eyes look back at you
for assurance you will always be there
woman in the mirror,every wrinkled line
bears testimony
of beauty that lies within,

not even the hands of time can erase.

CATHERINE  MAGODO MUTUKWA

MAGODO

With a passion to uplift and inspire young women and all women Catherine Magodo-Mutukwa uses the language of pen to express her thoughts and emotions on Paper something she always says is innate …as she describes herself as #mysisterskeeper.Born in Mutare in 1983,Magodo-Mutukwa went to Frank Johnson Primary and Lord Malvern High.She has B.A in English and Communication Studies.Catherine has penned five books under her name.She is a mother to two daughters Ruwarashe and Maitaishe and is Married to Tawanda together they are currently residing in South Africa.

 

 

BETROTHED

Tattered mind, drifting with the wind.
Strange similarity
Hard to decipher.
A tomorrow is,
But an accidental yesterday;

That yesterday;
My betrothal day
Merry not,
Wonder in mother’s cruelty
Betrothing me to death,
Rather than a husband.
To her I was a burden,
A stain to her lavish life.

Her unborn child,
Though life she could give.
On that night;
Oh fateful night,
Quite night all barred out…..
Melancholic cry,
Though savior to my unborn self;

Sentimental paradox.
A mother’s love I knew not,
It transcends simply a charade,
Shouting crises surmounted in
turmoil,
To the twist of my fate.

Alas’
It grapples with truth,
And keeps to shadows,
This pain I can never but show.
For I was damned,
To betrothal.

CHUKA

SILIBAZISO  SK. CHUKA is   a rising   poet, writer and advocate of girl child rights. Her writings are influenced by her daily experiences and her surroundings. Her poetry is mainly paradoxical, depicting unbalanced Zimbabwe social landscapes. The Young poet has passion for Arts journalism and listens to Jazz and Soul Music.

 

 

FRAGMENTS

 

Kill me not for my words.

I am a library of our culture.

Do not kill our elephants either.

It is our tusk to use our trunks to draw water for droughts.

Let me live and I promise futures with thousand breaths.

Kill me and all you have are protests.

Itai Dzamara was a bird of a different kind,

Whose beak beat against windows to shatter the glass.

Let us remember our warriors

My country, tea pot land whose water is yet to bring to boil.

Whose cows still owe us milk, and honeycombs our honey.

I was stung by a million bees when last I thirsted for sweetness.

Tell our bees I’m no enemy.

I have planted flowers for their cause.

The smoke from my fire need not anger them, as I hold nothing against their Gods.

mbonisi

MBONISI ZIKHALI – I am a humanitarian, carer of our grandmothers and grandfathers. I am a warrior for truth, and leader of our youth. I am the new Zimbabwe, along with my brothers and sisters.

 

 

 

REFLECTIONS

I am the caption of a history never told
A mystery never shared, dark humor
A reflection of a generation
Swimming in a pool of misconception
Perhaps that’s their logical idea
Of a born free in chains!
Incusarated…

Brain soaked in political detergents
I carelessly enchant their party slogans
In series of unpreserved ululations
How I am blinded and bonded
Engaged to poverty
Putting on red docks
And bellies cracking farts

Throats burps from acids
Lips kissed most that brown bottle,
Toxics that fail conscience.
Is it not escapism?
Escaping to fantasies
Yet our reality is an itch on brains
That aches like an ulceration.

TINOTENDA WILSON WAISON

WILSON WAISON TINOTENDA, an aspiring poet, human rights activists, page poet, flash fictionist as well as an editor of the Deem.lit.org ( Deem literature organization ). Born on the seventh of January 1998 at a local clinic in Chitungwiza of great svikiro, Tsuro Chaminuka. A Zimbabwean by birth and originates from Malawian tribe. The son of one Godwell Waison and Angeline Mandimika, being the first in a family of two, Annah Waison, little sister .Popularly known as the Lowlifediarist, has archived to compile and publicize two great ebooks entitled, THE STREET WHISPERS and the other one PAGES OF THE DIARY. He contributed to many journals online, The Kofi Annan tribute, African boy child campaign, The Ghetto Symphony Orchestra, and has been published in several episodes of the Zimbabwe we want campaign. He is also a brave voice under Miombopublishers. An active and ardent follower of the Harare Literature Festival founded by Chirikure Chirikure and other Poets in Zimbabwe .

 

 

DICTATORS DOEKS

Grandma’s sweat bathes the statehouse tarmacs,
Poverty shaved fathers are the glitter that replaced floodlights and
stolen lampposts
Brother is the anointed fisherman catching political breams for the
presidential roast
Ideological tutored memes sing praise anthems………..patronized
Singing praises to the republic’s red-carpet ……..they never stepped on.
Protocol relegates them to the ragged edges of the republic,
Mother’s tears rinse dishes after daily dictator’s banquets,
August is a museum of spent cartridge that shat death on sister’s womb,
……………..she birthed death.
Sister and her bullet shredded fetus are now
snoring sorrow under the rubble of elections cemetery.
January swallowed its conscience and munched grenade for dinner
November drizzled both waterfalls of blood and threads of hesitant laughter’s
…………… Nights of long knives …………
November drizzle birthed another tyrant.
November! November! You are dictator.
Autocrat’s robes immersed in blood gems of Katanga.
The African moon
archived that in RED CAPITAL LETTERS.
Hermits and slogan slingers donning dictator’s emblazoned doeks,
jabbing the corrupt foul wind with pseudo–revolutionary jives dancing
for the gwamandaizing, glutton, gobbling globetrotting gold cartels
trendsetter.
Kitchen cabinet frying small fish in autocratic pans and then enjoy
the delicacies during dictator’s concert under the guise of shadows
……….ooh crocodile games. Grandma snores under the hill of villages
packed like sardine until next ballot quadratics.
March, foot prints of dictators are scribbled all over the republic’s
red carpet. April ,autocrats’ fingerprints are the signature of
diamond cartels. May, tyrant’s thumbprint decorates the ragged bank
note.
June, lyrics on your doek are his campaign slogan.
Still grandma’s sweat bathes the statehouse tarmacs.
Mother’s tears rinse dishes after daily dictator’s banquets

MBIZO23

MBIZO CHIRASHA is the Poet in Residence at the Fictional Café (International publishing and literary digital space). 2019 Sotambe Festival Live Literature Hub and Poetry Café Curator. 2019 African Fellow for the International Human Rights Art Festival( ihraf.org) , Essays Contributor to Monk Art and Soul Magazine in United Kingdom .Arts Features Writer at the International Cultural Weekly . Founder and Chief Editor of WOMAWORDS LITERARY PRESS. Founder and Curator of the Brave Voices Poetry Journal. Co-Editor of Street Voices Poetry triluangal collection( English , African Languages and Germany) intiated by Andreas Weiland in Germany. Poetry Contributor to AtunisPoetry.com in Belgium. African Contributor to DemerPress International Poetry Book Series in Netherlands. African Contributor to the World Poetry Almanac Poetry Series in Mongolia. His latest 2019 collection of experimental poetry A LETTER TO THE PRESIDENT was released by Mwanaka Media and Publishing and is both in print, on Amazon.com and at is featured at African Books Collective. 2003 Young Literary Arts Delegate to the Goteborg International Book Fair Sweden (SIDA AFRICAN PAVILION) .2009 Poet in Residence of the International Conference of African Culture and Development (ICACD) in Ghana. 2009 Fellow to the inaugural UNESCO- Africa Photo- Novel Publishers and Writers Training in Tanzania. 2015 Artist in Residence of the Shunguna Mutitima International Film and Arts Festival in Livingstone, Zambia. A globally certified literary arts influencer, Writer in Residence and Recipient of the EU-Horn of Africa Defend Defenders Protection Fund Grant, Recipient of the Pen Deutschland Exiled Writer Grant. He is an Arts for Peace and Human Rights Catalyst, the Literary Arts Projects Curator, Poet, Writer, publicist is published in more 200 spaces in print and online.

 
REVISITING THE BODY

 

Where l come from, a certain woman’s story has grown into legend

A woman, who threw bones in the midst of flaring bullets.

It is said she saw into bones

That she was part spirit

That she was directed by the ground

Caught bullets with her vocal chords

It is said, before a war mighty men thronged her shrine for

interpretations of the soil.

That her voice was shield.

Nehanda, the bones woman,

When she appears in my history book

Has a cloth to cover her body

Her body, seeming to swerve, slowly with the wind

Hanging on a tree.

That was my introduction to a female body

Caught by a pursuing armed battalion

Closing the nose against the strong stench of death

And saying

“my bones will rise”

Female body, dancing in surrender

To the music of death

What else is the body besides dying?

Besides slow movements on a rope dangling off a tree?

Besides bones?

 


The day my Uncle almost hit my grandmother with a rusty steel bar,

was also the day he became a man.

Was the day grandmother grew safest from him.

Silence attacked the room quicker than the speed of light,

steel bar in air,

grandfather in motion,

faster than light,

catching the bar before the abominable thing,

blood.

The good kind, under the circumstances.

a non relatives blood was the kind to be feared.

Had the steel bar touched grandmother’s skin

It is said her spirit would rise

Years later

Brandishing a sweeping vengeance & amnesia.

Forgetting her own chromosomes

-To wipe out everything

with grandfather’s

blood in it

As hungry for blood

As outsider

As fucking angry spirit

 

What else is this body when not an abode for the celestial?

When it is not Nehanda

Not dangling on a tree

When its bones will not rise

Is it anything at all?

MILLICENT YEDWA1

MILLICENT YEDWA was born in the small mining town of Bindura in 1994.Her childhood years were spent in another small mining town called Mvuma. Shaped by small and intimate spaces her work aims to produce the same effect. She seeks to create an intimate distance between her work and its readers. She holds a B.A Hons in English from the University of Zimbabwe (2017). Her work is interested in the nuances of displacement, what it does to the mind of those who go and to those who stay, the destabilization of the relations as a result of movement. She is also interested in investigating through her poetry the nature of a country that would trigger such an exodus. Her work centers on these themes but is not limited to them. She is currently in the process of compiling her first collection of poetry

 

TO MY UNBORN CHILD

I am glad you are mine

I am also afraid I am yours

A mix of bitter sweet are my emotions

They engulf me as I think of you

Many are my hopes

Outside this your present abode

Many are the realities

You are bound to meet face to face

 

I know you are getting ready

Anxious of what lies out here

I too await your arrival

When I shall hold you in my arms

Giving thanks to the One

Who wove you together in the depths of my womb

 

I must school you of this world

That will soon be your dwelling place

Of the love that awaits you

From the one chosen for you by the Maker

The one who will show you the meaning of true love

The one person your heart will yearn for always

 

But, where love is hate also fights to belong

To cause havoc and discord

To take away the joy and peace and such treasures

It will come, not in form of a dragon with spikey horns

But with a smile, a laughter, a kiss, an embrace

 

Beware

Be tactful

Be wise

Even as you seek much counsel from your Maker

Lest you stumble and fall

As is their core calling for your life

 

Inspite of the corrupt minds

The harsh conditions

The times of lack in times of abundance

The times of pain and bleeding;

Your heart must understand

How it too must feel for others

 

Also remember you will find friends

Who will become your family

They will be all you need

And listen when you seek counsel

Our Maker will send his angels in our own flesh

To guide you through this journey of life

And help you keep strong

When the journey proves too long

 

Listen to your heart and care more

Love more, have mercy more

Reach out more, give more

Speak the truth clearly, be faithful, be all you can be

Learn more, try more

Because in others will you learn

To become great and useful

 

I wish to live with you

Every step of the way

But man’s punishment awaits us all

It could be now

It could be after

But in all I wish you know

Of what is to come after

Because it will surely come

And so being prepared you must

 

As I impart this truth

From my heart to yours

From my soul to yours

May these words find a dwelling

A fertile soil

That it bears much fruit

That you also may pass on

To your unborn child

lingiwe-4

LINGIWE  PATIENCE GUMBO was born in Gweru on the 25th of October 1980. This writer fell in love with poetry after completing her High School. She got obsessed with song and story writing.  She became a member of Budding Writers Association of Zimbabwe (BWAZ) where she was mentored by Mr Mbizvo Chirasha who was one  of  the provincial leaders and it was he who had identified the gift in her.  Her first    poem “Welcome my love” w was published in The Gweru Times .  In 2003 she became a member of the editorial team under the leadership of founder of Aglow Inter-denomination Ministries, Bishop Christopher Choto. She  worked immensely with  the  late famous  author Stephen Alumenda , The  Late Alumenda   mentored in Article Writing .Lingiwe writes about life, love and Godly issues basing on personal and general life experiences.  She is currently working on motivational books. Patience is also  a gospel artist/singer who released her first album named Worthy of all my praise in 2017.The gospel album   project was produced by Wisdom Nyaparami and Tinashe Mutandwa. Gumbo  is married to Gerald and they are blessed with two children.

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ITALIAN FLAG
PEACE
The dream
Of many
Powerless people
Just smile of
Little ones
Against
Arrogance of
Few
Greed and egoism
Dominate
This world
Of sorrow
Power is blind
In its
Selfishness of
Domination
Only inner peace
In humans
Can bring
The peace
We dream about
Why
It is so hard
To achieve?
Zana Coven's Profile Photo, Image may contain: 1 person, sunglasses and closeup
 Zanka Zana Boskovic  Coven
Italia

 


PROPHECIES FROM REPTILES

 

Hails ourselves black botanists

We wine and dine with animals

We talk and listen to them

They talk and listen to us

We exchange wisdom with them

Listen comrades, reptiles say

Our kinsman has begun the chameleon game

His colours have begun changing

His thirsty tongue darting in and out

He fears armoured kingmakers

Will dethrone him if colours turn red.

Listen human brethren, reptiles say

Our kinsman has begun the snake dance

His venomous fangs are starving

He has uprooted family soldier ants

And crowned them family messengers

To sever them from village arsenals

Across the void of homing futures

We can hear galloping cloves of horses

We can hear clanging sounds of swords

We can hear wailing infants in Harare

Trapped in new battles against misery

And stagnation and oppression and torture

Trapped in endless clashes against overstays

Be warned human friends, reptiles say

From the bottom of the Zambesi

mala

NSAH MALA   an award-winning writer, poet, motivational speaker, and youth leader from Cameroon. The author of three poetry collections, Chaining Freedom (2012), Bites of Insanity (2015), If You Must Fall Bush (2016), Nsah Mala’s short story ‘Christmas Disappointment’ won a prize from the Cameroonian Ministry of Arts and Culture in 2016. In the same year, another story of his received a Special Mention in a short story competition organised by Bakwa Magazine, the leading online literary journal in Cameroon at the moment. His French poem was cited in the novel En compagnie des hommes by the internationally-accl­aimed, award-winning Franco-Ivorian writer and poet Véronique Tadjo in August 2017. His forth poetry collection in English, Constimocrazy, will soon be released by a US small press while he is finishing a collection in French, Les pleurs du mal. He has read poetry in Africa and Europe.

 

 

FARE THEE WELL

Even asleep in the silent outskirts
on time’s green hills your
melodies shall eternally resonate
filling up this gaping void in me
and thousands stuck in sea of gloom.
This gust shall become mellower
as dust settles on the fine sands of grief
The gentle breeze shall
carry your appetizing aroma
from the Danube’s heights
to earth’s four corners
The brooks and books will hum
ceaseless in endless chants of praise
The unborn thy footprints shall trail
they’ll drink voracious
from the overflowing
gourd of literary artistry
simmering with rare lyrical dexterity
a delicacy, served to all and for all
Thy children like the butterfly shall
siphon proverbial nectar that lure
to magically carved symphonies
that sing of love, peace and tolerance;
sweet rapturous diet, that love shall replicate
in the hearts of future generations.
Adieu

NGAM cAME

NGAM EMMANUEL BEYIA, Cameroonian born is poet, educationist, and an advocate of socio-political change. His writings address various issues and every reader is likely to find one that suits their interest. His works have been published in magazines and anthologies the world over. He has also received numerous awards of recognition
He studied in THE UNIVERSITY OF YAOUNDE 1, Cameroon, where he obtained BA in French and English. He then enrolled into Higher Teachers Training College, graduated with a bilingual diploma. Upon graduation has been teaching in local High schools in English speaking Cameroon.

 

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 THE SMELL OF WAR
The scent of gunpowder burns in the air
as flesh rips open pathways for bullet wounds
till blood spatters bursts into fountains
on same marbles where we preach peace.
The savor of incense still smokes awhile
before bodies fall like logs hewn to the ground.
The aroma from the blossoms on the pulpit
entwine in a noisome whiff from heavy sores.
The spice from the steaks are still fresh till
fleeing feets quake; raise dust without quotas
and no one who sees a poisoned spear dart densely
Pocking out the bowels of a woman says “run”
The tidings of death made bare playgrounds
with stinks from shrinking masses turning bone.
Fear dances savage moves on the hearts of kids.
There is still a small ball and a small frisbee
till darkness creeps upon the sky in a rush;
rips joy off the faces of tree houses.
The redolence of peace I love.
I hate the burns
The rancid ruins of conflict
The sour spring of bloodshed
The frowsty field of dead men.
I hate
                        -the smell of war
soneye
ANUOLUWA OLUSEGUN SONEYE  is a graduate of the Department of English, Obafemi Awolowo University, Ile Ife. He is a writer of poetry and Short Stories. He is the author of the poetry chapbook “The Silence in a Dying Man’s Farewell. His works have featured in a number of online platforms like the New voices project library and the pride magazine. Aside literature, he also has a penchant for music,

 

VISIONS

Sometimes,

The night gets so cold that the stars all go inside.

But the moon will always stay behind.

And I will tiptoe to the edge of reality and reach out to it.

And through the silvered glass of my imagination

our  hands will meet.

It will smile and disturb the peace of earth’s aquarium,

with its eight billion fishes, already in bed.

I will then wander to the microphone,

where announcements are made to all galaxies.

Then observe the footprints of a thousand souls,

As they approach that point were two roads diverge,

to two different fates.

 

Sometimes,

The night gets so cold that my logic and faith sit side by side. For warmth.

And From the mix  of their exhaled air, I find unity.

And i realise that there are no problems anywhere. Only unanswered questions.

But here in earth’s aquarium there’s so much noise,

because one can never know the extent of what one does not know.

None has a map of his ignorance.

And the train of life never waits

And who will blame it,

since it has an eternity to cover.

Samson Abanni

SAMSON  ABANNI is a medical student who has the gift of words. He is poet who has a way of telling stories and inspiring change through his poetry which he sees as a tool of healing and a call to action. He has won some poetry awards and received high recognition as a poet of the new era. He has a great following in social media where his works are consumed with relish. He also organizes poetry contests to support upcoming poets. He loves words and writes as if his life depends on it.

 

 

THINGS STILL FALLING APART

Master story teller
In that country you wrote about
Telling us what the trouble was
Your thesis is still tenable
As the jokers are still calling the shot
Making many miss your counsel
Things still falling apart.
Purveyor of proverbs
When you see Joshua Nkomo
Refusing to smile in your new abode
Bear with him the inimitable one
As revolutionary turncoats
Have taken over the landscape
Making mockery of his beloved land
Things still falling apart.
Conscience of the nation
When you see Madiba murmuring
Understand his situation
As those he left the country to run
Are running it underground
To utter disbelief of those watching
Things still fall apart,

uche naija

UCHE AKUNEBU is a teacher of journalism at the international institute of journalism Abuja and Open University. Immediate vice chairman of association of Nigerian authors, Abuja chapter. A public scholar, poet and prolific authoring apart.

 

 

DO NOT MOURN ME, AFRICA.

When I leave to swallow the sea
Skip the jungle into dreams
Do not mourn me, Africa
When I put out to heed
A call of change across the border.

I want to learn to play pianos
So our drums will smile unique
Do not mourn me, Africa
When I set out to see
What lies inside the Hammer.

Not in vain my bracelets cast
Charmed Rhythms of our songs
Do not mourn me, Africa
When I heed to the dance of lands
Nature teases in our whisper.

Do not mourn me, Africa
Do not mourn.

precious star,

STAR OKPEH is a passionate African writer and Poet. Active Poetry Coach, Publisher at StarWrite Productions and Author of The Dance Of Dawn.
Her works have appreared on Atunispoetry.com, anthologies, Poetica Magazine and many platforms. She is the Head of Writers at The Portal Network International, Member of Writers Space Africa, Editor and International Project manager.
Chinua Ezenwa Ohaeto, winner of The New Hampshire Institute of Art Writing Award speaking about her did say…
” Star is a dynamic fellow With a beautiful mind.. Her writings measure the environment, relationships and understanding of self.”

 

WHERE IS MAN AND HIS HOPE

How amiable is the hope of man?
A man birthed by a woman
Wanders with trouble and anguish
His breath from the belly of deceit, is corrupt
Even the days are few, then extinct.

A hope lies for a tree
If it being cut down, it sprout again
Though the root and stock may wax old
Yet with the scent of water, it will bud
Bringing up boughs like a plant.

A man comes out like a flower and dies
He flee also as a shadow and vanishes
A man live, die and waste away.
But yea, he gives up a ghost
And where could he be?

What is man,
As he like water fail from the ocean
And who will see his hope?
They shall go down to the bars of the pit
For man lies down, and rise not,

Till the heavens are no more
With his hope, rest together in the dust
Now as I ask gently,
If a man die, shall he live again?

O no! Read diligently my verse
Like a shadow he flee as a ghost
But he continues not..

RHODAPOET
RHODA OYIZA ADINOYI from Kogi state, Nigeria. Youngest Poet in the August Edition .Oyiza is the author of a popular poem “LETTER TO MY ANCESTORS” and many more poems.“I’m devoted in illuminating the hearts of my septs through my verse

 

DEAR PAPA FREEDOM,
my head is pegged
to the sand of earth
that blood gushes out from my eyes.
my baiters cajole me
that my wails for freedom
can’t pierce the gate of heavens
let alone reaching your footstool.
till you take
eternal oath of office here
I shall not halt wailing
for my emancipation!
CHINEDU
CHINEDU VINCENT OKORO is a Nigerian writer, teacher and political cum human rights activist. He holds a B.Ed in Educational Management and Political Science from Enugu State University of Science and Technology (ESUT), Nigeria. He is a member of Association of Nigerian Authors (ANA). He has been published in various local and international literary magazines.

SONGS OF PHOENIXES

this poem is the teary voices

of 29 million people muffling the Pátrida Amada like unrehearsed dirges

on the lips of Cabo Delgado & the city of Beira

say Cabo Delgado is the blistered lip which

falls on the cuts in lip of city of Beira

to sing these songs & salutations of phoenixes for:

  1. souls broken in the anger of Idai & Kenneth
  2. drowned voices of more than 650 people echoing

refrains of buoys to those left behind in the clash of water & whirlwind

this poem is that persuasion of the survivors to thrive.

strip this poem of its imageries. & call it a prose

lettered in unassuming awe, flipping itself into ourselves

for a nation casting her losses like votes on the ballot of faith

this poem is both the ballot box & the result sheets —

the polls of the will of the people of Mozambique:

it tells of your butterflies waltzing; daring the odds

& [of your scented] flowers sprouting off the soil of your sweat.

Adesina-Ajala-Nigerian-Poet-e1575493875145

 

ADESINA AJALA A sprouting Nigerian medical doctor and writer, Adesina Ajala, desires to grow roots in the loam of the pen and the stethoscope. He does not know how he would fare, but he believes in journeying, in chances, possibilities and the divine. His works have found home in Writers Space Africa, EBOquills, Libretto, Featiler Rays, Brave Voices Poetry Journal and elsewhere. He was the co-winner of the first place of 2018 TSWF Writers Prize. He is on Instagram as and tweets @adesina_ajala.

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WOMAN! REINVENT THYSELF”

I refuse to play the victim
Just because I was born with a rose
For like my brother
I’m endowed with a brain and a mind

I refuse to be violated by dirt
For my father’s debts
Or my mother’s vain whims
Or to keep my brother in school

I refuse to play the victim
For like my male counterpart
I’ll use my brain and not my diadem
To pass my class and move ahead
My bubbly boobs in my bra shall stay
So speak to my face where there’s a mouth

I refuse to be lulled by taunting favours
A display of false fragility
Or weakness to supposed male superiority
Just because it is said so

My sister would stop playing the victim
To see there’s servitude in being kept
If you are happy being called after a cat
Remember,they too do not just have furs
They sure have claws too
To have a rose, a fluffy wreath of leaves
Makes you not a cat

Stop making excuses
Chose a better option for a better lot
Source courage from others
Who chose to make it right

CONTEH56

SAMUELLA JULIA CONTEH hails from Sierra Leone., she is a Human Rights Activist, writer, poet and dramatist. She is currently working with the Human Rights Commission of Sierra Leone Writers Forum and PEN-SL. She has received many awards/certificates from poetry participation in many international platforms. Many of her works have featured in several national and international anthologies. Samuella Julia Conteh is one of the founding members and matron of African Union of Writers.

 

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GRANDFATHER

Times pins have pierced his limbs
Rivers of wrinkle flow on his face
Bond and twist his centre
Observe his beauty in a heavy great coat
The grandfather that I have never seen but I know
Have never seen but viewed

The person that I heard about as fantacy
He was so brave and concurred the world war
Moved the forest and dug boreholes
Mastered the farming strategies
Loved and promoted my grandma s happiness
No one have ever given a full version of him
But his works are still alive

Some one said I look like him
One once said I length like him
And she wondered how I can length one I don’t know
The creator knows his making
I still carry his name
Probably my kids will continue his legacy

All he wanted was good living
He dress and fed may parents
He left enough to feed them for a life time
I still dream about him to date
Imaged his gate in the heavy Greatcoat
I wish a had a moment with him
Just to read his mind
And adopt his thought
May time grant me my Grandfathering Season?

PUSETSO LAME
PUSETSO LAME aka Poetic Blood, Co-founder and active Director of Dare to Fly Movement. A movement aiming at bringing artists/poets together on social grounds. The other aim is to develop poetry at grassroots level until they are able to be competent enough to be enrolled to Poetic Omnibus. An all-time active participant in the Botswana Presidential competitions and always emerging in the top five best poets in all the time since 2014 to date! Does English and Kalahari spoken word?

 

A DARK CLOUD HOVERS OVER SUDAN

Volcanoes have erupted

Hurricanes have swapped away big dreams of the Sudanese

Rivers flood endless tears

Blood sheds painted their beautiful Sudan red

Young souls transformed into brutal monsters who massacre without pity

Women and girls heartlessly made to easily lose their God given treasures

All hearts bled in sorrow

African Ancestors left mother earth

Looking back

Looking back for freedom, peace and stability

Long live Sudan!

 

In a land filled with natural blessings

Berries, roots and treasures blossomed the atmosphere

All landed on the hands of selfish scavengers

Like selfish hyenas scrambled and never thought of tomorrow

In a land echoing gigantic voices of dictators

Diamond cartels and gold diggers

who never cared when hundreds and thousands

died and suffered from famine

Streets penetrated with gunfire, panic, whips and chaos

War devils who led with spears and arrows

Dictators with dark coated hearts

who smeared their horrific faces with tons and tons of oil and yet still remained shrunk

Long live Sudan!

 

Lord exalt my horn as I speak freedom

Distract my enemies as I speak nothing but truth

Today I instruct you all to stop pointing fingers at the white coats

As you must know you have brought poverty to your own people

Sudan has been transformed into racks by your own sharp dusty hands

And you go on enjoying bread and butter with your families when magnitudes of your

own blood continue to sleep with roaring empty stomachs

Your illiterate minds over controlled you shamefully

Where are the diamonds that once sparkled Sudanese motherland if one may ask?

The minerals that fertilized your mother land?

Long live Sudan!

 

It’s heartbreaking to think of a black coat exchanging feasts with same blood

Our African Ancestors have taught us that the best solution of confrontations is through negotiations

How did you miss this one?

Please allow the innocent souls to taste the sweetness sugar of freedom for the first time ever

It’s time for Sudan’s north and south poles to meet without any friction

Hence allow the prettiest flag to have meaning after decades of years

The blue, yellow and green colors to take over their descriptions,’’The Nile, the Desert and Agriculture

Long live Sudan!

GORATA3

GORATA MIGHTY NTSHWABI is a Botswana citizen, registered poetess here in as Poko Boswa Poetry my Heritage, Living Arts specialising in both traditional and contemporary poetry both oral and written.She is an author of an English poetry book ‘Exploring the Roots Poetry my Heritage, Living Arts self-published in 2016.Gorata holds a Bachelor of Arts degree in social sciences with majors in Sociology and psychology from Central University of Technology Free State in South Africa and a Post Graduate Diploma in Education in African Languages and Literature from the University of Botswana.She works for the Botswana Government as a Senior Gender Officer and her goal is to advocate for the promotion of gender equality, inspire the young generation and unearth talent from grass roots level.As Poko Boswa, her vision is to focus on building networks for various poetry works such as contemporary poetry, natural and general poetry

 

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A POEM FOR MY SISTER
When the railroads swept wind and dust
My sister
From the faraway country of snow and single rooms of struggle
You ask me to write.

You say – write, write for me sister
Write for me something that will hold my hand
The sun ahead is heat and the potatoes wait to peel.

You say write for me like Maya Angelou and I laugh,
I say you read Maya Angelou to read Maya Angelou;

I write like me. But she says-like her sister, like her.

And after the dead night when I wake in the morning,
I know what you say, I see your eyes and I know their light.

They tell me of the rooms we have lived, the men we have loved, the bodies we have carried inside our bodies
And I know suddenly what you tell me.

Inside us we carry the bamboo winds of yellow light
We have walked the roads they said we cannot walk
It was not love that made us love
It was need. It was all the world that told us we were women not fit to look into their eyes, women who could not think or stand up in the middle of room with men, speaking about how to bury dead uncles.
They said only men could talk. Only men had voices.

We had small lives. Some called our breaths, school girl revolutions.
They called our mothers, sluts. They said our mothers destroyed us by telling us to love ourselves, by telling us of the sky, the rivers and the brown earth.
When we wanted to see the sky, they said we juggled our breasts to show the men.

The men were around, everywhere. We had to hide ourselves in downcast eyes, and dresses that covered our brown arms and legs like water.
When we smiled to see an eye lifted to look at us, we were crushed, crushed, crushed.

What was left of us was a battered heart torn at the edges,that did not know how to be happy anymore.
When glasses were left on the table or father needed a glass of water they sat on cushioned chairs and let out a hand
They read newspapers, walked on the roads and laughed aloud
In the open verandah.

And we, my sister, we walked the nights in waters they did not see, under our arms were daggers of steel.

There is no poem I write to you
I cannot write

I only see you, walking in the snow,
Alone, erect, a dot of red;
I only see me- walking this heat,
Alone, erect,a dot of red.

(This poem is dedicated to Zaara, the fighter woman who gives me hope)

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ARATHY ASOK resides in Kerala, India. She is a bilingual writer and has recently brought out her book of poems Lady Jesus and other poems( Authors Press, Delhi, 2018). Her poems have appeared in national and international journals, in print and online (in Samyukta, Poetry Chain,anti heroin chic, Poets in Nigeria, Blue Nib magazine, Door is Ajar and Culture Cult). They are included in an Anthology called Native Petals and Iliyali(forthcoming). Her stories have been published in Rupture, Credo Espire and have been translated to her mother tongue and published in Indian Express Malayalam Online.

 

MY SYRIA

Behold my kids
With no childhood.
Listen to their screams
Lost in the music of the bombs.
See their festering wounds
Like a paddy field with
scorched fissures.
Listen to the tales
Of fragmented bodies.
Look at the sky turning red
When village are bon fires.
See the ghost houses etched
On the carpets of blood
spread on the ground.
That is my Syria.

Ambily
AMBILY OMANAKUTTAN is a protest Poet, Writer and Activist from Kerala, India. She is writing continually articles in newspapers and magazines. Her poetry is published in so many magazines, weekly and daily platforms. Omanakuttan is an advocate of gender rights, human rights and environmental conservation .She uses her poetry and essays to speak out and to amplify vulnerable communities. She is a literary revolutionary armed with her pen and poetry to free her people.

A GOLDEN LOTUS

For Sylvia Plath

oceans churned
on her brow

wind swept
the leaves

of her life
into dust storms—

flames leapt
in the mirrors

of  her eyes
that dwelt

in a penumbra
of life and death.

what fables
she had conspired

and what truth
and pain

that led to
a gas oven
and a golden lotus
in a dull grave.

bina

BINA SARKAR ELLIAS is founder-editor, designer and publisher of International Gallerie, an award-winning global arts and ideas publication from India: www.gallerie.net. Besides her chapbook of poems, The Room (AarkArts, UK, 2005), her poems have been published in Indian poetry and literary anthologies, Atlas, AarkArts UK, and 50 Poets, 50 Poems (Open Space 2006) and several journals and online sites. Her poems have been translated into Arabic, German and is now being translated into Turkish. She has participated, given talks and chaired discussions on art at events in India and overseas, and has been invited to read her poems at various venues. She lives and works in Bombay, India.

 

EYESORES

 

Education   makes   a  person

cultured,  sensitive   and   wise

my   Guruji    used    to   say                                                                                                                               and   I,   too  feel     so.

But,  today   most   educated                                                                                                                                    and    most   developed

countries  have    been   proving it   wrong

War  is  the  global   phenomenon  today                                                                                                            ‘only   talk ‘  of   the  world  today .

Why   can’t    so  called                                                                                                                    educated   and     cultured

people   see   the   disasters  of   war ?                                                                                                It     adversely     affects   us

emotionally,  mentally   and  physically !

Serene   sea    and    rivers,                                                                                                                        azure    sky   and   chirpy    birds,

bouncing   kids   and   grazing    herds,                                                                                              all   get   traumatized, all   seem   trembling !

Their   paleness   shows   the   traces

of   that    catastrophe  of   that   devastation                                                                                    pain    and   horror, trauma    and  terror ;

which   they    go  through during   the   war.                                                                                Every  thing  wears   a deserted  look !

War   damages   them  in   every  way,                                                                                               But    the  clashing   countries,

Clashing   groups,   clashing  people                                                                                                        become   so    unthoughtful    and

unkind,  heartless  and   blind  of                                                                                                                the   scary   postwar  impressions                                                                                                   that   they   don’t  listen  to  anyone.

Can   such  lethal   wars be  averted    ever  ?                                                                                    Neutron   bombs,  killer  satellites,

lasers    and   cruise   missiles                                                                                                             they  all  bring  the   life   to   ashes

on   the  earth    within  no   time !                                                                                                       The   cold   war   rivalry    between                                                                                                 big   countries  target  small  countries,                                                                                            Their     actions   are   in   violation                                                                                                    more   of  the ‘ Human  Charter’   than

the    U. N.   charter…!                                                                                                                                     Global  warming,  serious   health

hazards,  toxic   pollution, water   and  air   pollution.                                                                   Precious  human    life,  animal  and                                                                                                 bird   life,  all  become  extinct .                                                                                                          Global  harmony,  universal   welfare is   left  behind..!                                                              Whoever   is  thoughtful, would  fear  the war .                                                                                        National    chauvinism,  fanaticism,                                                                                                 ethnic   madness    should                                                                                                come   to    an    End                                                                                                                             I  fret   about   the   future                                                                                                                    Do     you    too……?

 

 

DEEPTI GUPTA

deepti

Former Professor and  Educational Advisor, Ministry of  HRD, New  Delhi. Served  in the Hindi Dept  of  three top Indian universities. Creative writer  for the  last   34 years  &  22  books  into  my credit.  Received  Sixteen  prestigious  ‘Literary Awards’.  Many  of   the  stories & poems are the part of  syllabus in   the university  & colleges  of   India, Dubai,  Sharjah, Milan, Abu Dhabi .

 

 

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ONE WEEKEND IN MY TOWNSHIP
The clouds of Jo’burg CBD are blanketing us with rain, streets gleaming with mirrors of puddles. Taxis are hooting feverishly. All eyes seem to be glued on me. Everyone seems to be knowing about it, about what I had been doing many yesterdays before… I bite my lower lip. My dress is clinging to my quivering body, my throat choking like strangled apples. “I have been betrayed by Friends of Cyberspace, whatever happened to that home-grown sensibility?”
As I pace towards Noord Street Taxi Rank, I start feeling dizzy. It is 16:00 p.m. on a Friday. The hustlers and office workers are scurrying home. Their hollow faces carrying the weight they do not understand. I make a stop at Moodley’s Fish and Chips. Inside, it is warm and stuffy, damp air clogging my nostrils, and whirling through the fangs of the ceiling fan. “Shoo! It appears they don’t know about me at all here”, I sigh. The snoek and slap chips I have bought glisten in rains of vinegar and salt. I catch a glance of a handsome dreadlocked guy, who looks 28 years old. I faintly smile back as I exit Moodley’s. “Why was he staring at me? Could he also be knowing about it?”
The taxi jiggles to a halt at Nxumalo Street. I stumble out. It is Saturday afternoon. It is tomorrow. Fear didn’t bring me home yesterday, but has dragged me home today. Women are busy as women always are, carrying their extra weight everywhere. An old man smokes and coughs, and then stares at me. I bite my lips as I open my grandmother’s rusty gate next door. My grandfather is sitting outside with a smoking pipe in his mouth, inhaling and exhaling grandmother’s anger, his shoulders carrying his jacket like an old bent hanger. Inside the house, lavender floor-polish wafts with mutton stew aroma. Grandmother digs her leathery hand into a pot of pap, plonks it onto a plate, the pap shakes deliriously. She bashes the stew on top of it. I hold my breath: “She seems to know already”. I realise neither of them have greeted me, their only granddaughter, after weeks of having been away in the City.
I shuffle into the bedroom and bury myself in granny’s bed. Timmy Thomas’ song wails outside. The lace curtain is tingling my cheek as it flirts with the calm breeze, greeting me, shielding me from the world. Life is good but fleeting. I catch headlines of Maboneng Times Online from my phone : “Another Young Woman’s Body Found”. I freeze.
It is Sunday at 7:00 a.m. I wake up to yesterday’s nightmare. Granny, sensing the horror in my veins, starts to pray, her eyes looking weary from too much life. Suddenly Joyce stumbles into us, and into God. Granny grits her teeth, showing Joyce the door. Joyce, her stringy legs glued to the floor, tosses her hair, trying to shake off her state of chaos. She suddenly scurries outside, leaving her fear bouncing against our living-room walls like a trapped demon. I run after her and her sorrow and catch up with her just outside our gate. I hug her bony shoulder, and hold her tight. The chatter of children playing nearby, embraces us. A chubby woman takes a break from her senseless chores, to stare at us, at my love for the girl from the other side of the sewerage. I feel confused, not knowing what is good anymore, because what feels good is bad. On the horizon, men who speak a language that clicks the tongue are returning from the mountain, blankets of manhood adorning their shoulders.
Minutes later, Joyce and I arrive at this neighbourhood shebeen called No Jokes, to buy some beer and a plate of food. The shebeen mama’s feet heave and pound as she prepares fried cabbage and chicken feet for the hungry patrons. The sweat beads on her forehead fall short of dripping on the shredded cabbage. The dogs are lying in the warm shade, warped in the forgotten space. Flies are buzzing nervously in the air. We collect our bounty, and head for the nearby park. Outside the shebeen, car-washers gaze at us, foam of soap slowly dripping from their wiry hands. Time has frozen. By this time the stares are all around us. A crowd encircles us – Bible-clutching men, bra-less women in faded T-shirts, giggling boys who hang out at MJ’s corner-shop – I feel dazed. They all start chanting. It is Struggle Songs, Songs of Freedom. I am confused. In the back lebollo songs bellow, songs of boys returning from the mountain as men, songs of manhood, their notes low and slow. I begin to realize that the men from the mountain have joined the crowd…They are hoisting long knives in the air, blinding our eyes. “Hey wena Diana the Diesel!”, one of the women with drooping boobs screams at me, her eyes flaring , “we have no place for trucks like you and their waiting Letties in our township, sies! Hamba!”. I now begin to recognise her. She is one of the newer members of our LGBTI Facebook closed group. I now realize that she is the traitor I have been wondering about in the past few days, the one who infiltrated our group. She is now dancing to a soup of songs that are framing us like were a peeling picture. My ears are ringing. Joyce and I are not expressing our emotions because there is no corner to keep them safe. We do not talk because one couldn’t talk to shadows. So we freeze. The Methodist Church bells start chiming, catching the mob by surprise. The circle around us opens for a while, in moments of surprise, giving Joyce and I a chance to flee towards the sound of God and stumble inside His house. Outside it begins to rain. Our foreheads are dripping, but it is not from the rain. Just outside the church, our love lies, soggy, surrounded by hatred. A squealing police van suddenly jerks to a halt. The crowd is gone.

(The story was originally published by Kenyan Writers’ Blog ‘Story Zetu’ in 2016.)

 

 

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DIMAKATSO SEDITE was born in Mangaung, South Africa. Her poems have been published by Aerodrome, New Coin, The Kalahari Review, Botsotso, Brittle Paper, Miombo Publishing, Poetry Potion, Hello Poetry, Poetry Cafe, Story Zetu, as well as featuring in two anthologies : ‘Poetry from Public to Private Places : Botsotso 18’ and ‘Best New African Poets 2018’. Her Igby Prize Essay is published by The Kalahari Review. She blogs on nala4za.iblog.co.za.¬ Her two flashfiction stories appeared in Story Zetu in 2016. In 2018, she was a finalist in the Poetry in Mc Gregor Poetry Competition and won the 2018 Jozi Book Fair Keorapetse Kgositsile Tribute Competition. She holds an M.A. in Research Psychology from Wits University. Catch her interview in ‘Africa in Dialogue’ with fellow writer, Sinaso Mxakaza.

 

 

CHOTSANI AND ALILE

15 refugees gather around a burn barrel on a Friday night under icy skies. Victims of Hurricane Pother. Huddled outside makeshift tents – captivated by Chotsani and Alile’s spellbinding story. The 20-year-old Malawian twins shiver from the aftermath of a storm that altered their lives forever.

Chotsani seemed lost in the events that took place in Cape Town on 25 June 2017.

“It is an imbecile who chooses to lose sight of injustice and buries his head in the sand – perhaps too afraid to face truth – the truth of murder and prejudice – who are we to question to whom the moon gives light, for whom the sun chooses to rise. Or for whom the storms of life will call? Are we not equal?
Are we not all human? Does this South African plain not feed the hungry and give shelter to the homeless; does it not relieve the refugee of social stigma? Then where is justice for the horrendous crimes and undisguised ferocity against the refugee who merely pleads for asylum and a safe place to lay his head?
It seems we have pilgrimed from conflict to combat – our yearning for amity has been smothered. I am no longer a boy but a frail old man; burdened for my mother and sister who were not only beaten by Pother but by the dark spirit of self-preservation; tortured within the core of a storm.

In this Nirvana my parents till the soil from sunrise till sunset and we eat from their labour. Is that not enough by which a man earns respect and secures his dignity? Why must we live our lives in fear of the ruthless who wish to see us go home – this is our home, South Africa has become our home”.

Alile laments – “Decon is where our “smartie box” is. Smartie box, that’s what the locals called Decon’s RDP homes – but we were grateful to have a home – our safe place with its tiny patch of homegrown vegetables and chicken coop. I was preparing to leave for school at 7am – an hour after Chotsani and papa had left. Pother maliciously rose and vomited all over papas dreams. Our home shook with fear as it hurled the dead through our windows. Mama and I looked at each other beneath the vengeance of an unrelenting enemy. Pother uprooted our tiny investment of love and swept away 5 years of papa’s pride.

I held onto mama as we swam through an opening to surface for air. Baby Ntwene drifted by with his wee hand reaching for his dead mother. Trolling rubble dragged the weak into its torturous embrace.

Mama and I were sobbing as we reached to help but lost our grip. We gripped each other. Our hearts were torn by the horror of the newspaper boy gasping for his last words. Go in peace JJ. We wept. Sorrowed for Papa and Chotsani who must surely be dead. Shacks sailed over playgrounds and soccer fields. A nightmare cruise through sheol. I once had to swim from crocodiles while defying lake Shire, but the pain of losing JJ and Baby Ntwene will stay with me.

Finally mama and I clambered to safety and found refuge in a vacant house that seemed to not have been hit too severely.

We held each other and sorrowed for our neighbours when suddenly a team of enraged women descended upon the house. They bound mama’s hands and beat us to an inch of our lives – left us for dead. We are foreigners they said. “You people are taking our jobs and now you have brought a curse to our land”.

I am a cripple now. The children at school call me names,” beanbag”; “miss floppity”, “raggedy doll”, “flip flops”;
Our father’s heart failed when he watched his wife grope his face. He died of a broken heart, not from Pother’s fury.

The names hurt more than my floppy legs. How do I explain to the world that I am a victim of frenzied intolerance? A chair my prison. The storm an alibi for a murderous community. Inherrent hate fueled by loss. Pother was untouchable but the despised refugees a hot vulnerable target even in the heart of nature’s onslaught.

Chotsani places his hand on her shoulder as tears pool his eyes, “We must grieve Alile. Here the sun rises and sets on all who grace its shores, yet we are ostracised and killed. This disease has been given a romantic name – xenophobia and Pother the inspirer. To my afflicted soul it sounds deceptively soft and feminine. Where is justice”?! His antipathy was palpable.

“The women went unpunished”, groans Alile, and justice turned a blind eye. It was Pother madness they said. Many times I felt less than the girl I was, the young woman I envisioned. I will never dance again. That’s the most painful truth that beats me everyday – one I have to face and live with. Indeed brother, xenophobia is a fallaciously graceful hand that delivered a draconian blow”.

Chotsani stands with his hands stretched towards the flicking red hot tongues as he stares into the past. “What will become of us – of our women, children, mothers and sisters; our brothers who are killed because prejudice rages and bias slices at our fragility. We came for peace but instead we found war. Why does the killing not stop!? Why…. Why”!!!!?? He falls to his knees as flames lick and scorch his sorrow. Pother took our homes and yes, many lives, but prejudice killed our father.

The group glares at the terror flashing from Alile ‘s eyes. “My mother’s bloodcurdling shrieks are tattooed upon my heart. They took her eyes and hijacked my dance but not for acrimony will I sacrifice love to live without freedom. Papa always taught that forgiveness liberates the soul. Maybe heartache was all he had after forgiveness”.

Chotsani looks at his sister, “Has democracy brought emancipation or has it sown violence and reaped more animalistic crime – Crimes that destroy innocent families. I wonder”, he beckons the wide-eyed group, “Will we ever be free?

“Brother, we cannot change the past and hate thwarts the hater. Prejudice and racism is born out of fear and is cushioned in selfish ambition. There are no victors in war. It is the heart of a man that must change”.

You are right my sister, let’s put the past to bed, at least for tonight.
Our narratives will be framed. The blood of the refugee will continue to cry out for justice. We shall recover from Pother’s brutality – mourn for lives lost – for Papa’s death, but bigotry –

Well, tomorrow we shall see.

RDP – Governmental reconstruction and development housing project)
Names, dates, times, places are fictitious.
The 2017 Cape storm/hurricane claimed many lives

 

(South African writer, BEULAH KLEINVELDT , unwraps the exquisite beauty of humanity, passion, love and faith against a backdrop of the dark concaves of violent crime, corruption, bigotry and poverty. She carves a medley of multi-cultural stories into a sanctuary where love lords over war and bloodshed.)

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BEULAH KLEINVELDT Is an emotive South African Short Story Songstress and Poet. Jambiya Kai’s formula is fairly consistent – driven by raconteurs who challenge unjust systems and find themselves drawn into a web of deceit and abuse – the reality of love and loss.The poet authentically weaves the tragedy and victory of the human experience into a tapestry of memorable imagery and metaphor – vivid multi-ethnic stories; provocative verse and song.Her works have appeared in -Sir Ricky McGentleman’s, Live Life: The Daydreamers Journal (Barnes and Noble) “For the Love of a Queen – alongside the works of British Novelist Gwyneth Jones; American poet Judith Skillman and Stuart Dybek; Best New African Poets Anthology 2017 – (The Amstel Breeze – now, A Monarchs Migration);The 2008 Good News London Publishers Contest earned her The UK Overall Winner’s Award for her poem When Freedom Reigned (Ode to Africa).She is an avid writer and supporter for and of the Tuck Magazine (Canada); 100 Thousand Poets for Peace Campaign – (Zimbabwe); Miombo Publishing; Poetry in the Blood, and other online Journals. Her works are also read on The Dear John Show.

 

 

 

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PRICE OF PAIN
The drum beats echoed across the dusty plains, competing against the lowing of tired cattle as they were hurriedly herded into the make shift kraals for the night. Sunset had barely settled into the distance hills before the legs of the dying sun added the color of bellowing wood smoke onto the scene. The smell of roast camel meat told a gay story. Woman’s coy laughter seductively called the night close. Smaller children told their excitement by enacting observed adult games. An evening of cerebration of an elevation. What an evening!
Older men were squatting on the dusty patch under the only acacia tree within the compound. Their scanty hair dyed red with henna resembled crested cranes in the dimming light of day. Chewing khat and spitting the dark green remains out with forceful sputter, rendered them a club of gate keepers at the show within.
At the center of the circle of tattered make shift hovels with plastic roofing sheets flapping in the charging night wind, were women in faded bui buis and shawls chattering in shrill voices as they made traditional bread on the open fire.
From a long distance away, a hyena laughed. Elders cocked their heads to the direction of the laughter. Closer by, an owl hooted. The chattering women stopped momentarily to first look at one another before transferring their sad looks to the elders. There was horror on the women’s faces and one uttered a thinly veiled scream. This is because the animal kingdom could be easily imitated by sinister marauders of the night. The cow was a prized animal on these plains.
“What’s the meaning of this?” the youngest of the women asked no one in particular.
In answer, she got a whooping smack at her swollen bottom by the oldest woman present, promptly ending all efforts at more questioning.
“You don’t question what must come” the elderly woman hissed.
A tension settled on the compound. A restlessness arose fired like a ball of fire on dry grass by the piercing cry of a child, soon joined by another. The hyenas laughter came loud and sinister and nearer. The owl hooted closer. The tempo of whimpering children went up an octave higher. The elders stood up. The young men quickly came to where the elders stood with clenched jaws and furrowed faces.
The great patriarch cleared his usually rough throat and bellowed in a tongue dripping with authority. For such an emaciated figure the tremble of his voice was quite impressive. He sounded like deep volcanic rumble.
“ You know what must be done!” is all he said before the youths drew their heavy guns and spread out round the compound.
Young men are not known to waste time putting a favorite toy to use. Here, on these plains in the semi desert of the proud nomad country more than anywhere else. The early night came alive with a cacophony of heavy bursts of machine gun fire. All other noises were swallowed by of boom of doom. In three minutes, ears were ringing as blood pleasure rose to stroke levels. The elders, both men and women knew their drill. The cooking fires disappeared. The cattle kraal was alive as the old men blended with and into them. Silence. If death was to come, the clan believed, let a man die with his favorite animal. Cow.
“Mariamaaaa! Mariamaaaa!” came a haunted scream from one of the dilapidated hovels.
A sight beyond what the elders could never remember awaited all in the dark room.
The bride. The child bride only aged thirteen had used the cover of the confusion to stick a knife into her heart and now lay still and warm in her mother’s mat. Shock and disbelief engulfed the small homestead. The intensity of the loss, the shame of the protesting child and the obvious loss of dowry for the minor was clearly registered on the bowed heads of every mature member of the group. This was her night passage to adulthood and honor of marriage. This was her cerebrated honor for catching the eye of the richest elder of the clan. This was her night of exit from a child to a woman.
No words could express the outrage of the old man whose daughter was to fetch him a handsome herd or her brothers who stood to benefit from the sale.
The night ended. The story never ended, for law enforcement comes even if a day late. By then, the story had changed and Mariam’s sad demise was attributed to a cattle rustler attack.
The truth though, is that a monster culture had eaten its own. A future cut down at the beginning by

 

nancy ndeke
NANCY NDEKE  is a Poet of international acclaim and a reputable literary arts consultant. Her writings and her
poetry are featured in several collections, anthologies and publications around the globe including the American magazine Wild FireSave Africa Anthology. World Federation of Poets in Mexico. Ndeke is a Resident Contributor of the Brave Voices Poetry Journal since mid-2018. African Contributor to the DIFFERENT TRUTHS, a publication that sensitizes the world on the plight of Autism edited by Aridham Roy. SAVE AFRCA ANTHOLOGY edited by Prof. Dave Gretch of Canada and reviewed by Joseph Spence Jr has featured her poetry and a paper on issues afflicting Africa and Africans. Ndeke’s poetry and other literatures in WILD FIRE PUBLICATION in America published by Susan Joyner Stumpf and Susan Brooke Langdon. ARCS MAGAZINE in New York Edited by DR. Anwer Ghani. Her women Arts Presentation was recently published by WOMEN OF ART (WOA) in Cape Coast in Ghana. Soy Poesia, in Peru, Claudette V pg 11 featured her writings with great reception.AZAHAR from Mexico, with the initiative from Josep Juarez has also featured her poetry. She is also featured in WORLD FESTIVAL OF POTRY (WFP) from Mexico under the able editorial team comprising Luz Maria Lopez .INTERNATIONAL AFRICAN WRITERS from Nigeria, under the able hands of Munyal Markus Manunyi .Patricia Amundsen from Australia featured her poetry on this year’s international women’s day at Messenger of Love, Radio Station. Esteemed poetess Jolly Bhattacharjee featured my works on her greatly acclaimed awareness anthology for 2019, India.

 

 

IT’S MIDNIGHT IN YAOUNDE

When the world wakes
From eternal unbroken reverie
To reality of a country
Torn apart by foreign tongues;

When the mass graves
Tucked with innocent villagers
Those that couldn’t ballot
Celebrated with hail of bullets;

When the grim reality
Of hapless shepherds in collars
Armed with crucifixes and oil
Swept by the raging storm;

When a continent is roused
From slumber of inaction
Too shamed to look at itself
At the mirror another time;

Will there be a country left
To rebuild from dust and ashes?

THE COMMON MAN
Walking down the street ,
He Mouths common epithets
About ‘us ‘and’ them’
Smiling with mindless glee
At the reckless ignominy
Flames of passion dancing
On grass thatched huts ;
Does he share in the victory
Or in the collective loss
Of shame and pride

50594501_373395066543747_6756511648606846976_n[1]

MICHAEL MWANGI MACHARIA is a prolific poet who was born and raised in Nakuru county of the expansive Rift Valley in Kenya.He is a graduate of Moi University .He was anthologized in Echoes Across the Valley and has published in online journals.He also contributes articles in Saturday Nation.He also has interest in photography, fine arts,music,drama and dance.He is associated with a private publisher and has edited a few manuscripts. He finds poetry a worthwhile and great pastime as well as form of expression.He feels the information technology revolution has been a great opportunity for poets to link up and create positive change in the world today.

 

HE IS OSIEPA

He is Osiepa
My friend
The kiss on my lips
Food for my soul
Everything I want and much more

He is my friend
Osiepa to be exact
Just know aheri ahinya
Tightest connection ever
Ikelo kwe ichunya

He is Osiepa
A friend for life
My muse, my mood board
An inspiration for my words
The catalyst for the release
Release of thoughts into feelings Feelings into words
Words once lost
But now found in you

He is my friend
Osiepa chunya
The reason my heart feels warm
A splash of bright colored paint
Speaking to my palette
Igniting excitement in my life
New images, new memories
Nothing like a new coat of paint
Fresh paint for a new start

He is Osiepa
A true friend
Freedom to be myself
My new beginning
My brand new picture of life
My new partner in life’s walk

He is Osiepa
A friend for life
Someone to share life moments with
Walking the different life series as one
Cutting slices of life together
Eating life together
Making a life together
Sharing the pieces both big and small

He is my friend
Osiepa, from beginning to end
No other can take his place Imperfections and all, podi aheri
You my friend are perfect for me

Osiepa, Aheri

beatrice-3

BEATRICE OTHIENO -AHERE  is a creative spirit, with a deep and quiet soul. She has great belief in the motherland Africa and her richness often mistaken for poverty. Her passion is working with young people and women to amplify their powerful voices to maximize their potentials and break the chains that hold us back. Words are her power tool that ensure her thoughts are not just shadows but a light to a path of change. Dismantling the status quo and the socially accepted norms that create imbalance in our lives and are deeply rooted in who we are and determine our thoughts and actions give her a reason to inhale and exhale hoping for a better today and future. Through her work, facilitates platforms for young people to showcase their talents. This includes working with poets, bands, hop artists, graffiti art expression to explore social conscious messaging. She worked with young people to curate art for peace during the last elections in Kenya as well as facilitating a safe space platform for creative arts for peace in South Sudan for young Sudanese living in the diaspora in Kenya,

 

RECLUSE POISE:
Oh politics, a tree with long stretched limbs
That struts to support prickly poisoned thorny twigs,
Holding blooming leaves and budding flowers, but
Feared by tendrils’ soft phloem and xylem, dart
With bark of stem, a shining lustre of a people
Raised above the intricate network of fibrous that
Sips ground’s moist, soil’s nutrients n economy’s minerals
Through roots irrigated by oozing blood,
Tears filling can, tears of feeling and emotions,
Tears that fuel fires of blooming leaves
Whose blood adorns red squares and streets,
For the budding flowers, even old,
Thriving on rifles that coughs, voices to silence, face
Of lives dispatched to early eternal phase.

Oh, recluse poise of Africa, what Psalm palms you plight?
Span of land that nature gives as north walks to south,
With soil as vast as East runs to West, starved of blight,
But why the political recluse in Harare? Whose mouth
And soil, hides ideas of brave men, fast of the
Ilk of Mujuru, Muzenda and Morgan, all rich
With women that wanders wide world at ease
Touching with touches of life that munches mere peace,
And brave alike, with zeal that justice preach
In face of tar turned flesh, down razing nation
Amidst red glown head torches that escort steel fists of brutes,
Oh! old ladies, descendants of faithful Sarah,
Holding to hoist high the tag to Abigail’s obedience
In protection of Africa’s hue in lieu of turmoil,
That forms nourishments that be of
Foyers of tribe that sites Africa’s beauty in essence
Of weaning bad governance with presence
Of humanity without overt fake wake that mess!

Sharp is thy anger, oh thy whose language is brute violence,
How doth such language prefer thou?
One picked by those sans reason, full of insolence,
Bereft of diplomacy, even clout,
sans ability and means to commune, but
rapture with mystic heads full of dark cloud,
That abuse bhang, to shake astrocytes, for atrocities
With abused khat still in swollen cheeks,
And heavy in eyes schist of somnolence,
To lower humanity and raise superfluities.

Tarry and see, nurture this enclave few pacifists,
Let life and peace blossoms like floras of Savanna,
And stroll across the winding roads,
Unclench to free your steel fist,
Droop your hands, ease ire, drop iron rods,
All are your neighbours, at heart kindness list,
Whiten to clear soft your blood infested
Reddened eyes,
Cool your adrenaline, later be invested,
To your boiling blood, jacket its tubes with ice
Condense it’s vapour, convert it to wisdom
And with it savour to enjoy; the freedom
Of the flows of Victoria Falls
The life in the wild, striped in Zebras, in
Giraffes whose necks hold high
Heads,with mouth’s atop Heavenly Inn,
Enjoy powerful puffs off lion’s mouth,
Savour seldom recluse poise of natural kinds,
Of the chirping egrets, on Mt. Nyangani’s south
In the swishing lilting coasting winds
In which leaves play kissing, in dances of specific
Lyrics of rare rhumba, rare psalms, genre of Afric
Dressed in most pacific, dwells of Shona or Ndebele,
Luba or Mongo, Tutsi or Hutu,
Luhya or Kikuyu, oh, psalms that sums up Ubuntu!

victor wesonga

VICTOR WESONGA is of Kenyan nationality. He stays in Kenya. A Literature enthusiasts with roots immersed in Engineering. In the republic of letters, I read to internalize and learn .My submission comes from his unpublished anthology, MILITARISTIC STAIRWAY

 

 

THE NILE

From the womb of Lake Victoria, I burst forth,
Embarking on an epic journey towards the north
Where I will rendezvous with the Mediterranean.
Many are the obstacles and by the time I reach my destination,
I will be as crooked as a politician.

In some parts, I plunge hundreds of feet over cliff walls,
Sending off clouds of vapour as thick as tear gas.
In others, my brisk pace is reduced to leisurely stroll.
Enforced to tributaries, I soldier on to my distant goal,
Snaking through fantastic valleys and conquering scorching deserts.
‘Why doesn’t this river dry up?” mused the ancients.
“And where, oh where, lies her secret source?”

For millennia, I held my secrets fast –
My age, my origin, my tributaries, my course.
Before I revealed all, men had to die as if cursed.
I am the Keeper of Genesis, Guardian of the Past.
I enabled great civilizations to spring from bare dust.
The pyramids, catacombs, the delta in the Mediterranean Sea,
The Pharaohs, their subjects and mighty dynasty,
All owe their existence to me.

Without me, Osiris would not resurrect,
Pudding-soft paddies would be as hard as tins,
Egyptians would go down like bowling pins,
Hippos, crocodiles, sacred ibis and fish of every description
Would lie lifeless, awaiting the Second Resurrection!
I am the real Goddess of Fertility – no river touches me.
The Mississippi falls short, the Thames only comes up to my knee.
I am Anubis among jackals, Sobek among crocodiles.
I am the Nile.

alexander nderitu

ALEX NDERITU is a Kenyan novelist, poet, playwright and critic. Some of his work has been translated into Kiswahili, Chinese, Swedish, Arabic and Japanese. He is the Deputy Secretary-General of Kenyan PEN and the Kenyan Editor of the US-based theatre news portal, TheTheatreTimes.com. His first book, ‘When the Whirlwind Passes’ has the distinction of being Africa’s first digital novel. In 2014, his narrative poem ‘Someone in Africa Loves You’ represented Kenyan literature on BBC’s Commonwealth Postcards. In 2017, ‘Business Daily’ newspaper listed him among Kenya’s ‘Top 40 under 40 Men’.

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KUMINA NA MOJA
it’s probably marinating inside you right now,
it’ll come out she says,
leaves to grab her laptop,
the power flickers out as i drink wine,
its dark & red like the blood in the street,
the cow stripped of its coat,
skin exposed, meat dangling in the window.
around the corner is a man in a white lab coat
splattered with dots of cow guts.
we smile, wave, mambo, stray dogs lap up the pools of running blood.
this is my quick and dirty: whenever i see cows in tanzania
i think about how you would squeeze my cheeks & how i would moo.
here, women own the milk trade,
but they are traded for bride prizes,
paid in 4-5 cows.
when i stumble through the walkway the night is full of scooby-doo-spooky darkness cows echo,
my heart hears women.

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ARIELLE . K . SHAKOUR  is a 4th year student studying
English Literature, with a minor in Creative Writing
at the University of British Columbia.She has self-published a book of poetry, called
Exposed Bones & Broken Poems. She has a poempublished in UBC Slam Poetry’s Third AnnualChapbook, The Year We Became. In addition,her work can be found on The Garden Statuary and on The Foundationalist Journal. She has one dog.
Her favorite food is banana pancakes and she livesin Vancouver, Canada.

 

‘CHOICE’

 

The sirens in the distance kept getting louder. I could hear them getting closer every passing second. It’s like time is testing me, should I just lay here on this bed speechless or should I run? I want to run but my legs seem to have given up. They’re numb; they feel stiff. I take the last drag of my cigarette and let the nicotine spread across my anxious body. The sirens are surrounding me now. I want to close my eyes and hope that this all a dream but every time I do, all I see is red and blue. The ringing in my ears won’t stop. Can’t all of this just go away? Why can’t the noises just stop?

Her lifeless body laid next to me, not moving a muscle. Her silky long hair covered her face. Her eyes were shut, she looked as if she was finally at peace. She must be at peace; after all she doesn’t have to live with me any longer, right? Her rosy cheeks lost their color, her skin was pale as though all the blood had rushed out of her body. How could I possibly admire a dead person so much when I couldn’t even do the same while she was alive? The smell of my cigarette took over her rosy perfume. The room no longer smelt of her.

“Always ash it in the ash tray!” she used to yell while I “accidentally” always ashed it on her favorite satin sheets. It was easy to piss her off, all I had to do was um…exist.

She loved satin. It was her favorite type of cloth. Tonight, she is wearing a peach satin night gown alongside our satin sheets which are creamy in color. I guess she always had an affiliation towards warm colors. The red stains on our walls really brought out their shades of ochre. How could one like warm colors so much, and yet not have any warmth within them? I always liked cool colors. We were polar opposites. They say, “opposites attract” but Diane and I always seemed to repulse each other. Maybe the law only works with magnets. We were never meant to be magnets in the first place, just two lost souls trying to find their way out of a marriage.

My indigo shirt was drenched, the red all over making it look black. She always reminded me of the color black. Like a shadow, plain and almost always invisible, unless I chose to notice her. She always thought I never noticed her, but the truth is she was always so hung up on wanting to live a life away from me, that she never really tried to live a life with me. Maybe one last time, I can finally smoke a joint while she’s gone.

“It’s either me or the marijuana in this house, you cannot have us both!” she used to scream every time she found a joint in the bathroom.

I looked over to her side, the blood that was once inside her body is now surrounding her. I wonder if she’d be mad if she knew her satin sheets are now soaked in her blood. I take the joint and crawl out of the bed. Perhaps I should respect a dead person’s wish one last time and not smoke in the house.

The sirens finally stop. No more red and blue lights, no more loud ringing; just complete silence. I could hear the leaves on the trees crackle with the slight breeze that blew across me. The night is chillier than usual. The moonlight seems to be shining particularly on my house tonight. It’s like even nature wanted to throw a spotlight on my wrongdoing. I throw my half smoked joint across the lawn as I see two silhouettes walking towards me. Both built, dressed in complete black, most likely the cops.

“Good evening sir, um, were you just s-smoking mari-”

“Sir, we received an anonymous 911 call saying there has been a crime committed in this house, do you live here?” the black cop cuts the Caucasian cop off. His voice is very stern.

“Yes” I mumble under my breath. I try to avoid eye contact and hope that they don’t notice my blood-stained shirt in the dark.

“We’ll have to take a look in-inside your house, s-sir.” The Caucasian cops says.

“um..but-”

“We’ve noticed the b-blood on your shirt and sir, we really don’t want trouble, so we could either do this the ee-easy way or the hard way”

“Alright.”

I try to keep the conversation to a minimal while I point them towards the door. The black cop gestures for me to come along with them, so I follow them into the house.

I sit downstairs cuffed to a table as they search upstairs. I could run away, I could escape from getting arrested and prison time, but I don’t find the need to. Everything I’ve ever wanted and loved in life is lying dead upstairs, what is the point of living in this house now? What is the point of trying not to look guilty when you actually are guilty of it? What is the point of living or dying when she’s not beside me?

I close my eyes and wait until the police find my tragedy upstairs. I could hear whispers but I couldn’t make out their words, I could hear footsteps but I couldn’t tell where exactly they were. Do the cops normally take this long to search a house, or does it just feel like time is passing by slowly? Or am I just high? They finally come downstairs, both of them look at each other before they turn towards me with another set of handcuffs

“Mr. Gradner, you’re under arrest for the murder of your wife. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in court” the black cop tried to make his voice as intimidating as possible.

“Yeah, I know” I say as I stretch my hands out so that they could cuff me. Both the cops suddenly looked perplexed.

“Are y-you high Mr. Gradner?” the Caucasian cop questions as he proceeds to put my arms behind my back.

“Yes” I reply

“W-were you high when you murdered your wife?”

“Yes.”

 


 


 

Prison is a very disconsolate place. I guess it is made this way so that everyone in here could reflect on their actions. Little does the government know that this place, in fact, drives people crazy. How can you leave someone in their own thoughts without giving them anything to do? I am trapped inside the prison of my own mind. I couldn’t tell what’s worse, letting myself get trapped in my own mind or actually being trapped. I need something to keep me sane. I keep taking myself back to that night. Sometimes I wish the sirens were still there, I wish the ringing was still in my ears. Anything to keep myself from feeling empty. Anything to keep my mind from drifting away into its land of darkness. Unfortunately, it’s hard to get a hold of a cigarette in here, let alone drugs.

I spend my days sleeping amongst all the noise of other prisoners, and I spend my nights being awake thinking about her over and over again. The nights in prison felt long. Despite how cold prison is, my body never seemed to agree with the temperature. During the day, I would shiver and during the night I would find myself in a pool of sweat. My body needs drugs. I need to get high. I need to stop thinking about her. I stare at the white wall in front of me as my eyelids get heavy and I drift away into my world of nothingness.

No matter how much I tried to hide it, Diane always seemed to know when I was high. She wouldn’t get upset, rather, she’d yell at me as if all that yelling would sober me up. Her words always went over my head, I was high, and her words flew past way higher. I always hoped that one day she would eventually understand me, but that day never came. I was always stuck between giving her too much and not wanting to care at all. More often, it was the former, but it was never reciprocated so eventually it sank down into the latter.

“You can’t solve all your problems through drugs! You can’t expect them to disappear just because you’re fucking high all the time! I didn’t disappear, and I am your biggest problem, am I not?!” She used to say.

“Everything in this world is solved through drugs, my dear. From a simple fever to something as deadly as cancer.” I’d reply calmly.

She was right, she’s my biggest problem, but I also loved her more than I loved myself. How can you love someone and yet despise them at the same time? Somehow, I always felt this way about Diane. It’s like, I could neither live with her nor without her. I was stuck. I was lost.

You see, she’s the reason I started using in the first place. Too sadistic of me to blame my mistakes on my dead wife? What can I say? The truth is the truth, I cannot possibly change it. We thought we walked into a happy marriage as two halves becoming one. We were too blind in our love and happiness to see the reality for what it actually was. We were parts of one whole being separated into two halves. It wasn’t a strong bond that kept us together. We were tied together by a barbed wire. The tighter it got, the more it hurt us, the more we bled. I was willing to stay; I was willing to get hurt and bleed for her, but she wanted otherwise. She said she couldn’t take the pain, I hoped it was because she had a lower tolerance to pain than I did. She kept tightening the wire until one day it finally snapped. Our marriage snapped. We were living together but not really living with each other. We slept on the same bed, yet in different directions we rest. We wanted different things with life, I wanted her, but she wanted more. Every night she’d take the car and drive away. She never told me where she was going and some nights she wouldn’t even come home. Sometimes, she would come home with her lipstick smudged and her dress shorter than when she left.

Every time I asked her where she had been, “Why does it concern you?” was her simple reply. I really wish life was as simple as her replies sometimes.

The nights got longer, she left for days together while I started getting my hands onto substances. First it was alcohol, then weed, and when I finally realised I needed more I went onto harder substances. They weren’t helping, I still needed more. I needed them to forget about her. While she spent her nights putting her mouth to another man, I spent mine putting my mouth to bottles and pills. I thought she’d never find out about my drug habit, I thought she’d never even notice but eventually she did.

“You know you can tell me anything right?” She’d say while gritting her teeth.

She tried to hide her anger through the face of her curiosity. I seldom replied. We barely spoke anymore. Eventually, when she was tired of her life, she decided it was time to butt into mine. She left and now it’s okay for her to walk back in again? And why? To keep me away from the one thing I love, again?

It was a full moon night. The dogs had finally gone to sleep, and the neighbourhood was at last quiet. I was just done snorting my lines when she walked into the bathroom.

“Get the fuck out of the bathroom, you have to make the choice tonight!” Her voice was unusually loud that night.

“It’s either me or the drugs, you can’t have the best of both worlds! UGH! When are you going to stop living in this dumb fantasy world of yours! I wish I had better! I wish I had chosen better, instead, I’m stuck with you and your stupid drug habits.”

Her words echoed in my ears. The world slowed down, everything around me started going in slow motion. I looked at her and my whole life flashed in front of me. It spiraled around me as thoughts flowed in and out of my mind. My body felt numb; I lost all the feelings on my fingertips. I could feel anger settling down in my stomach, and I could feel the despair fill up until my throat. I was falling backwards or maybe it was the drugs? Her voice ran along my body, I couldn’t hear it any longer. I loved this state of ecstasy, but she couldn’t be a part of it, she couldn’t ruin just another thing that brought me happiness. Diane had to go.

I made my choice.

“-vid!” what’s that sound?

“DAVID!”

I felt a hand on my shoulder shake me. I shook my head and my eyes spun back to reality. The Caucasian cop that arrested me was standing in front of me. I look up at him and he pulls me up by the collar.

“Listen here, you si-sick fuck, you need to tell us who else was there in your house that night. The 911 call we got was anonymous, but we need to figure out who else witnessed the crime. You bastard, you were too high to remember anything from that night, so why don’t you tell me the person’s name so I can ask them what the fuck you did, aa-asshole!”

He stammers less when he’s angry, that’s unusual. His grip on my collar gets tighter, my breathing slowly gets heavier and heavier.

“I did it.” The words rush out of my mouth.

“Huh?”

“I called 911. I was the anonymous caller.” I finally say as he looks into my hollow eyes.

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JAYITHA VANNUM is a 19 year old, upcoming writer, thespian and poet. She was born in the city called Bangalore in the southern part of India. She moved to Kelowna, Canada at the age of 18 to study as an international student at the University of British Columbia to pursue her under graduation in the Bachelors of Management program. I picked up my first book when I was 10 and penned down her first poem when I was 11; ironically enough, that poem is actually called “I can’t write a poem” which is something she laugh about to this day! Despite doing Management, She has always had a knack for words – mainly them flowing onto a blank sheet of paper. She see words as stars and putting them together either to write poems or stories, She feel as if she have fathomed these stars into constellations. Constellations that are defined and shaped the way I want them to be. Her fascination for pens and blank sheets of paper didn’t stop at just writing; when words fail me, I sketch and paint her thoughts instead. Even before she learnt to hold a pen, she learnt to hold a tennis racket. She played tennis and took part in numerous national tournaments until the age of 15. Along with tennis, I also bagged many gold and silver medals in both athletics and Throw ball. Coming back to the present, I am in my second year of Bachelor of Management. She actively volunteers as a peer mentor at my university and she works as a barista at Starbucks over the weekends.

 

 

 

 


 

 

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LIFE IS A TWISTED ROAD

Life is a twisted road dominated by unexpected twists and turns,

However at the end of the day,  it is from them that we learn.

And in spite of being so hard to cross,

The flame of hope ensures that you’re never lost.

So keep the flame of hope always bring and strong,

For as long as hope reigns, nothing can go wrong.

Do not lose hope in your heart even on days when success seems far,

Even when all doors are closed,

Check for windows that are left ajar.

Success is actually failure turned inside out,

Remember this whenever you find yourself discouraged or in doubt!

MABLE23

MABLE CHAMA  is  a graduate of Teaching Studies , a budding poet ,an actor  and filmmaker . She participated in the Sotambe MultiChoice Filmmaking Master Classes . Chama contributed immensely  at the Live Literature Hub of 2019 Sotambe  Documentary  , Film Arts  Festival.

 

 

OH AFRICA MY BELOVED MOTHERLAND
My Motherland —
A blend of artistic and prehistoric attributes of ancient history,
a bittersweet story of a magical perambulation so golden
clothed in extraordinary fertility of soils
embellished with silver and gold,
an unending fold pregnant with tales untold
pillared with walls of a rich culture and tradition
livid with luminesce and pure magnificence.

My Motherland is a flourish of nature’s splendor
like that of rainbows glamour

fully possessed with countless beauties –
an absolute magnitude of beatitude
stretching from oceanic fountains
to eminent mountains,
She glows with fervency of nature’s resources
and boasts with umpteen wildlife
carrying around an atmosphere of care
orchestrated by hearts of a people so tender.

Her vast canopy of lingua is a sensational shade
that caters for all
and
her utopia is not chimerical but practical.
Oh Beloved Motherland
you are a blessing indeed.

Benedixio Moore Khoti Consul - Zambia

BENEDIXIO MOORE KHOTI (PEOPLE’S CHOICE) hails from Southern parts of Zambia. An upcoming writer, Spoken word artist, lyricist and storyteller. He writes about the universe and the beyond.

 

SHEEPS THAT HUNT

Not all danger comes with signs like thunder before rain but some come like a fragrance from a garden with fresh roses and such was Mia’s fate. On a fateful Friday afternoon, Mia rushed out of the school premise heading home but met Mr. Xulu her religious studies teacher along the way. He asked if she could go and sweep for him which she usually did then got paid for it. She got the keys from him and started heading to his house, she got there trying to do the chores as quickly as she could but Mr. Xulu arrived early that afternoon.
“Mia, have a drink then get back to your chores,” he said. “Alright sir,” she replied. She took her drink then suddenly started feeling dizzy and the next thing she saw was her teacher sleeping on the other side of the bed and she on the other while naked with blood stains on some bed sheets. She knew her worst feared nightmare had come to life so she started sobbing silently in anguish and fear. When he woke up and found her crying with sarcasm he said, “You can report this to your parents or the police but be sure to go without bathing for evidence’s sake. You should also remember that the world will look down on you and blame you for coming alone to a bachelor’s home. The saddest part is that when they get to know about this, you will be ashamed and no man will ever marry you so I suggest you calm down, have a bath and go get some rest at your mother’s house. With tears in her eyes she got up and did as instructed.
A few days later, Mr. Xulu went to her and told her how they will continue that act in secrecy or he will lie to everyone and so she agreed. He was as cunning as a fox, a predator in prey’s clothing. When Mia got pregnant and refused to abort he gave her a poisoned drink which caused terrible reactions, in fear he took her to the hospital stating that he had found her dumped on the street. When her parents arrived the doctor disclosed how she had terminated a pregnancy which led to severe bleeding hence removal of her womb. When she was asked who was responsible, she pointed Mr. Xulu who adamantly refused and shed crocodile tears. Her parents didn’t believe her either for he was generous, about to be chosen as the vice principle at her school and the youngest pastor in their church.
She was chased from home and disowned, she tried to plead but to no avail. That night Mia hanged herself to a tree and left a note, “When the clouds covering the lies shall fade, I hope you remember my words to be true. Beware of the Lion in sheep’s clothing, its next prey is another of your calves. Your beloved sheep is a hunter.”

GEORGETTE MBALE
GEORGETTE KENDRA MBALE is a young lady with a passion for writing poetry. I am the eldest daughter, raised by a single mother and grandmother. Being raised in an environment where literature is not much appreciated, poetry has been like a fire that has been shut up in my bones. I am still learning as an artist and my passion for writing keeps on growing as I let my pen waltz on the paper whispering my thoughts into words. I have always loved reading poetry but I only summed up the courage to start writing recently. Life’s circumstances and passion propel me to write. I love to write about love because I feel everyone out there is looking for some sort of love and I believe with love great things can be achieved. All unity and real friendships start with the little love we show to others.

 

 

 


 

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“A LEADERS PATH”

He used to be a teacher of mathematics and chemistry
who was always aware of devilry’s mystery
When darkness prevailed over Tanzanian soil,

the vines of nation suffered blight to spoil

the fruits of hope which could have been sweeter

But the harvester called poverty made it even bitter

The branches of life became fragile by bending

He came to impose measures to curb government spending

Thus, a patriot he remains caring for each resident

He is John Magufuli, the country’s fifth president

When from Cholera his countrymen were dying,

he was the one- resolved to save money from flying

away with the jubilance of the land’s independence

Now humanity loves to depend on the dependence

of peoples’ dream for future on a great leaders’ path,

When Tanzania is blessed to attain a rebirth,

MUNIA KHAN 1

MUNIA KHAN is the author of three poetry collections : ‘Beyond The Vernal Mind’ (Published from USA, 2012), ‘To Evince The Blue’ (Published from USA, 2014),and ‘Versified’ (Published from Tel Aviv, Israel, 2016) Her works have been translated into various languages: Japanese, Romanian, Urdu, Italian, Dutch, Croatian, Spanish, Portuguese, Russian, Albanian, Finnish, Greek, Indonesian, Turkish, Bengali and in Irish language.

 

 


 

 

 

THE PARADISE OF PEACE

The honest voice can really gleam the world
With the golden key of the paradise of peace
And care the lovely living with tranquil herald
And bring an eternal life with heavenly grace

Let’s assiduously edify the paradise of peace
Peace of showering the boundless lovability
Peace of bestowing an unadulterated affiance
Peace of bringing the truly deathless fidelity

Let’s care our children with paradise of peace
As the place where they can feel the freedom
Freedom from the purely nefarious injustice
Freedom from the soulfulness of thralldom

Let’s sing this song of the paradise of peace
In all levels without a glyph of discriminability
As the only remedy for chasing the wicked race
As the only message of spreading a humanity.

edm

EMMANUEL DOUGLAS MULOMOLE was born on 8th December 1994. He is a conscientious poet, avidly quotable writer, story writer and Life advice writer. He is from Africa, Southern part which is Malawi as his country. Many of his poems have been published on national and international website and some of her poems have also been published on international anthologies. He has won many awards from international poetry forums.

 

 

ZIMBABWE WE LOVE

fill to the brim the pit of self-inflicted destruction

break loose from your strife and sorrow with hearkened ending

bandage the unhealing wounds of unrest gushing with myriad rivulets of rotten blood

cast the iniquity of the despised and starving masses into a dark dungeon of ridicule

pluck on the dead currents of your dark stars to illuminate and give hope to the heartbroken

utilize the looming dawn with unstifled vigor to stop the torment of the agonized

brave the tempest and adjust your sails to whispering heights of sound visions and winged knowledge

inflate the deflated tires of your titanic chariots and climb the tallest hills again, in quest of your tampered glory and visibility to the world eye

the Zimbabwe we love

blow zillion trumpets through valleys and rivers and mountains, calling the scattered hiding in the caves to return and build the fallen walls

the Zimbabwe we love

abolish your trembling and let the binding sweet counsel of charmers sing a new song of joy, in unison and triumph, buried past and reunion,

paying a deaf ear to sugarcoated lieswe have infants to feed and raise

MASANGANO

JUSTICE MASANGANO ,I am a malawian writer and a vernacular recording poet. I won the 2015 Nkhoma radio contest. I have published some of my poem and other vernacular works with our local newspapers between 2003-2013.

 

 

 


 

WHEN

 

There are moments,
that Poets owe to keep silence:
When birds sing,
rivers flow their water quietly,
sun shines and warms everywhere
and people live in harmony.
And there are times
that Poets own to cry out:
When the sky is getting dark
from smoke of rockets’ and fires’,
sea is darkening from oil
and sea-gulls are dying from pollution.
When sun isn’t warming all the people
and children are unhappy.
When ear spreads panic,
fear and death,
leave behind ruins,
cripples and shuttered devastated dreams.
Then, Poets owe to write.
Making pen a weapon,
a message and a hope.
Till they come again these moments
that Poets owe to keep silence.

zg 2

ZACHAROULA GAITANAKI was born in Athens on November 30th, 1966. Now, she is a small farmer and lives with her family in Arcadia. She writes poems, articles, short stories, essays, novels and review of book. She is also a translator of books of poetry. She is a life member of the “World Academy of Arts and Culture” / “World Congress of Poets” (which awarded her the title of the Honorary Doctor of Literature), of the IWA, the “WPS”, the “Poetas del Mundo” and the “Asociacion Mundial de Escritores. She has published twelve books

 


 

 

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THE WIND
Coming in naked
Going out naked
When we were born
there was only the wind
When we die
there will only be the wind

In my dreams
you have stroked my dry hair and
passed throughhopeless
stone markers of national boundaries

Absent, you pass across the land
and kiss the quiet sky
roaring your contempt

Where will the fragrance of the wind go?
Where will its retribution come from?

We know nothing of
the weeping wind
the wandering wind
the singing wind

Hadaa Sendoo SENDOO HADAA(born.1961) is recognized as a great poet of the 21th century. a world-renowned poet who lives in the Ulan Bator, the capital of Mongolia. A member of the Union of Mongolian Writers. Since 1989, he has published 19 books of poetry. Sendoo’s recent collections of poems include “Sweet Smell of Grass” (in Persian 2016), “Aurora” (in Kurdish 2017), “Mongolian Long Song” (in Georgian 2017), “Wenn ich sterbe, werde ich träumen” (in Mongolian- German bilingual 2017)”Mongolian Blue Spots” (in Dutch,2017), ” A Corner of the Earth”(in Norwegian 2018), ” Peace, Broken Heart” (in Russian 2018), and “Sich zuhause fühlen” (in German 2018). His poetry works have been translated in manylanguages, including Greek, English, French, German, Italian, Russian, Spanish, Hebrew, Arabic, Persian, Swedish, Dutch, Norwegian, Macedonian, Turkish, Kurdish, Lithuanian, Albanian, Romanian, Kazakh, Tajik, Uzbek, Georgian, Japanese, Chinese, Korean, Vietnamese, Indonesian, and more in other languages. Hadaa Sendoo has won many awards including the Mongolian Writers’ Union Prize. In 2006, he founded landmark World Poetry Almanac which he continues to edit.

 

 


 

 

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MY DREAMS ARE THERE

My dreams are there
Pieces of words have shaken the soul…
My dreams are there,
Just like thousands of icebergs in an endless ocean.
Mind penetrates all the way flying,
In other skies, trips “endless”.

My dreams are there,
In spring skies, with many stars
Pieces of feelings crumble a soul
And turned magic into a cloth.

My dreams are there,
Just like light whitening, in sun rise.
With longing of autumn in a chest
And…points of rain – sorrow.

My dreams are there
Over rainbow arches, colors of thoughts;
A white day, hope and happiness,
Trenches are twisted, poetry rebellion.

My dreams are there
Formatted in a great feeling…
A view thrown in a dark sky
Breathing margins – a statue shape.

Agron 1

AGRON SHELE, poet and famous figure of literature of the world, member and chief representative World Nations Writers’ Union in Albania.He was born on 07.10.1972 in the village of Leskaj, District Permet. After completing his 8-year school, he completed his high school studies in Tirana. From his early age he had a passion for literature. He is the author of literary works: The Beginnings (novel), Beyond the Gray Curtain (novel), False (novel), and Poetic Volume: The Passage of Innocence (poetry) and the essay book “Universal Colors”.He is the Editor of International Anthologies: “Open Lane” and “Pegasiada” and co-founder of the ATUNIS Literary Magazine. He is a member of the Writers Association of Albania, a member of the Association of Writers of the World (IWA) based in Ohio (USA) and a member of the Contemporary Global Poets, and a member of the UWP board. He was Secretary General of the International League of Poets, Writers and Artists “Pegasus” Albania. He is the organizer of the ATUNIS Poetic Galactic Board.His prose and poetry have attracted the attention of literary critics, he writes on psycho-social topics, he has been published in many newspapers, national and international literary journals, and has been included in world anthologies: Almanac 2008, WORLD POETRY YEARBOOK 2009, 2013, 2014, The Second Genesis etc. He is also the winner of the Naji Naaman Literary Prize (Creativity Prizes – 2016). He has been an active part of Civil Society in Albania, he received training for management, projects and leadership from many international foundations such as SOROS, REC, USAID, UNDP, UNICEF, etc. He has been Chairman of the Association “Youth and Children” and “Environment in the Community”. He is a Currently he lives in Belgium.


 

 

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LOOK , HE SAYS

We are not from the same earth. I’m from farming
tuber land. And from the banks of river clay.

You’re from sandy grounds. Loose earth easy spreading
itself at the roots of old trees along a stream.

We both have an accent. You talk like your mother
from the start. Soft sounds come from your father.

I like to butterfly around flowers above your tubers
and by you I’ve let go of the roots in the earth.

You gave me back what I left behind in peat soils,
taught me to look in a different way. To everything

and by you I took a load on my shoulders that weighed
nothing. Only words and images dissipating

in each other. You gave me back a thousand words
while walking slowly, so understanding, down the slope.
Gouden vriendschap

 

Vriendschap is al net zo’n beladen en ingewikkeld
woord als liefde.
Ze lopen vaak door elkaar zoals twee rivieren als
zijtakken een grote stroom binnengaan en worden opgenomen
in het grote geheel. Het grote dat geleidelijk steeds groter wordt maar
soms
ja ook soms
verlaten ze die grote waterbedding en verdwijnen in aftakkingen.

En waarom, waardoor,
vaak niet eens duidelijk.
Je kunt niet altijd de tijd de schuld geven
ook niet dat dingen en ook mensen uit elkaar groeien
ook niet dat het niet goed was. Het stierf af, het verdween,
in de aarde, in de lucht, het verdween.

Maar vriendschap die blijft en vriendschap die verder suddert
met weinig aandacht heeft onderhoud nodig.

Daarom hoop ik dat onze vriendschap een onbetwistbaar
feit is. Zonder vragen en zonder vraagtekens en met weinig
onderhoud gewoon omdat het verstaanbare vriendschap is.

Daarom geef ik je een van de robijnen omdat ze de kleur hebben
bloedrood, passen in mijn sieradendoos van blijvende dingen.
Kijk, hij blijft glanzen aan mijn hand, schittering in het licht
is onverslijtbaar deze lab created ruby die de bouwstenen
hebben van echte robijnen. IJzersterk. Verbonden in Rose Gold.

-voor mijn dichtersvrienden
Knut, Hadaa, Mbizo en Rahim
Suzanne, Nicole, Sasja en Lief
Job, Roger, FA en Albert

hannie 3

HANNIE ROUWELER (Goor, 13 June 1951) has been living in Leusden since the end of 2012. Her sources of inspiration are nature, love, loss, childhood memories and travel. In 1988 she debuted with Raindrops on the water. Since then more than 40 poetry volumes have been published, including poetry books in translation (Polish, Romanian, Spanish, French, Norwegian, English). Poems are translated in about twenty languages. She attended five years evening classes in painting and art history, art academy (Belgium). She published a few stories (short thrillers); is a compiler of various anthologies and poetry collections. She is a member of the Flemish Association of Poets and Writers (VVL)

 


 

 

 

REZDOMNI PESNIK PIŠE SVOJI LJUBICI

Zgradil nama bom hišo iz besed.
Samostalniki bodo opeke
in glagoli bodo polkna.

S pridevniki si bova okrasila
okenske police
kot z rožami.

Cisto tiha bova ležala pod baldahinom
najine ljubezni.
Cisto tiha.

Prelepa in prekrhka bo najina hiša,
da bi jo ogrozila
z inflacijo besed.

In ce bova spregovorila,
bova imenovala predmete,
vidne le najinim ocem.

Ker vsak glagol
bi lahko zamajal temelje
in jih razrušil.

Zato, pst, mon amour,
pst, pour le beau demain
à notre maison.

HOMELESS POET WRITING TO HIS LOVE

I will build us a house made of words.
Nouns will be bricks
and verbs will be shutters.

With adjectives we will adorn
the window sills
as with flowers.

In perfect silence we will lie
beneath the baldachin of our love.
In perfect silence.

Our house will be too beautiful
and too fragile for us to endanger it
with an inflation of words.

And if we speak,
we will name objects
visible only to our eyes.

Because every verb
could shake the foundations
and demolish them.

Therefore, hush, mon amour,
hush, pour le beau demain
à notre maison.

 

Peter Semolič

(Slovenia, 1967)

Foto (c) Tihomir Pinter

Peter Semolič is the leading voice of the youngest generation of Slovenian poets. Although rooted in tradition he started a new trend called “The New Simplicity” by Slovenian literary critics. His transparent and easy to follow poems usually contain seemingly innocent images that quickly open up into a whirl of strong emotions, profound meaning or even wisdom. The flow of his poetry is reminiscent of a big river, silent, seemingly motionless but incredible powerful. All this has made him a major influence on other Slovenian poets at the moment.Semolič, who was born in Ljubljana in 1967, studied general linguistics and cultural studies at the University of Ljubljana. He is the author of six books of poetry: Tamarisk (1991), The Roses of Byzantium (1994), House Made of Words (1996), Circles Upon the Water (2000), Questions About the Path (2001) and Border (2002). He received many prizes for his work, including the two most eminent awards in Slovenia, Jenko’s Poetry Prize and the Prešeren Prize (the National Award for Literature and Arts). In 1998 he also won the Vilenica Crystal Award. In addition, Peter Semolič writes radio plays, children’s literature and translates from English, French, Serbian and Croatian. His poetry has been translated into Italian, French, Spanish, English, German, Finnish, Polish, Hungarian, Bulgarian, Macedonian and Serbian.

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HE SUPER WOMAN

 

She is full of integrity and character

She does not seek for attention

She is hardworking and industrious

Very determined and principled

She is beautiful and her inner beauty is stronger than concrete and sweet like honey

If you can’t see her inner beauty and you claim you need an x-ray to sew her inner beauty

Then go buy an x-ray to see her inner beauty

Her smile is her lipstick

Her smile can heal a broken heart

Her smile is a weapon against pain

And it can kill pain like a bullet kills a Lion

 

She is God’s perfect creation

The last to be created by God

God created her with a lot of attention

She is not a rough copy but a fair copy

Very early in the morning at dawn as she wakes up

As the Cock crows, her eyes are open

She brings food to the table too

She doesn’t wait for the man to provide everything

She is not a goal keeper

For she is a woman that a man needs not a woman that needs a man

She is a giver of life for she doesn’t Abort

Abortion has never been about choice but it is about escaping the consequences of one’s choice by taking away all choices from another human being

 

She is a woman of few words

She is nor like other women

She had no time for gossip

Because gossiping is for fake people

She is am enemy of laziness

Her store is always full

Full of food that can feed her family throughout the year

She is always smart and descent

Because her body is not a billboard

Neither is her body a city clock

Her body is not everybody’s cup of tea

Her confidence is built on high self-esteem

 

She speaks wisdom and her words Can make a slave become a President

She is full of integrity and her integrity is deeper than the ocean

When she walks, she spreads coins of integrity that can make a poor man rich forever

She is not just an ordinary woman

But she is a woman of substance

A super Woman

An iron woman

If Women were states, she would be a super power

She can be a President

She is a great leader

NANCY KILI 1

NANCY KILI  is  Ugandan Lawyer, Filmmaker and Author. Kili is a recipient of the Women for Women Award-Academic prize that was presided by a jury of Diplomats from France,USA,Turkey,Norway,World Bank Group,International Monetary Fund and United Nations for her contributions in the education sector in Uganda and other African Countries through her organization;Cruise Education that aims at promoting literacy and mentoring education towards sustainable development. She has performed poetry in various countries including; Ghana,Nigeria, Zimbabwe, Kenya, Uganda,Mozambique, Burkina Faso Rwanda and Burundi. She is an activist of girl child education, an end to female genital mutilation(FGM) and equality for men and women through economic empowerment of which she implements the legal international statute, THE MAPUTO PROTOCAL.She has spoken in various international conferences. She also hosts the annual Lit Festival; a literature festival in Kampala-Uganda at the National Theatre.Kili has authored and published  five books that include,Failure is a Wizard (L’Echec est un Socier) a poetry book,The Story of Letasi(L’histoire de Letasi) a Novel,Tradition and education in Ayivu a cultural book,The adventures of Osuta(Les adventures d’Osuta) a children’s story serie book  andThe book of wonders(ThePleine de merveilles) a children’s poetry book.

 

THE BLACK SUN

The feathered arrows
Of the the lonely sun
Eloping from behind
Great graves of Africa;
Through the baptism of fire,
And living its fiery dreams:
I see it rising like Red Sea,
And its mustard tree passing
The tests of all times;
The feathery swords of the Sun,
Sleeping behind the great hills,
The great great graves of ancestors —
Rising red, growing red yellow
And setting all red,
Its piercing fingers pass
Across the face of the sky,
And blood red sweats drop;
I am amazed to hear
The dust of smoke rising,
And I am amazed to see
The rumbling of Jifungs
Marching to the desert
Eaten Somalia
And the forest swallowed Congo,
Marching for gold and fame,
I am amazed to smell
The rotting corpses of the worlds

KAPE1

Kabedoopong Piddo Ddibe’st, is a published Ugandan poet, artist and Literature and English Language teacher, an Acoli by tribe, born on 25th February, 1992, Kitgum, Northern Uganda.

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MARCH OF TRAGEDY

For all the terrible results of every tragic crash
All the lives that were swept, lost and there was no way
Left to transform the news to a false trash
Such tragedies shouldn’t have happened any day
There are no words to make pain easier.

We didn’t know that their lives would end this way
All those we lost, may they rest in peace
These devastating incidents had taken our breathes away
Heartbreaking realities we struggled to grasp
May all the bereaved find comfort and solace.

But this was the day God fixed
We shall not question His plans and deeds
But we shall remember this day of your glorious exit
You have lived your life and we won’t forget the story
Till we meet in the light of His Heavenly eternity.

 

AWADIFO OLGA KILI

AWADIFO OLGA KILI is the Ugandan Ambassador and Head of Diplomatic Corps to Poets Of The World (Poetas Del Mundo) global poetry community. Kili is a Ugandan Law Student, Human Rights Activist and Award Winning Author of The Book Victorious Tales which is Human Rights based. She was conferred with the Ambassador De Literature Award from Motivational Strips, an International forum where Writers from 105 countries.


pakistan flag

 

DO NOT THROW  PEBBLES

 

Rain drops beating against the window

first with short intervals,then a steady-

down pour, a storm is a deafening roar

voices drowned, subdued will be raised

again, will  rise and  soar for the needy

 

humanity, half naked, soaked in pain

enchained in spirit, starved in poverty

‘Do not throw pebbles at any color, for it

is strong, true, permanent, natural –

bonded with water, glass will not shatter

 

do not think me as different, I may be

similar in thought action and love,I may

be braver, but I have a heart, I know how

to play fair, and care, and share, I stare

at the world with surprise, I am tender

 

I am a person but through other people’

I know how to be human through other

humans,  desert  dark at night is gold

in daylight, serpents slither in rocks too

unseen unknown, black is gold and gold

 

black and I am a person only through

other people’-I am like the moon, lit

only by the sun, I am dark too, bonded

with Earth, inseparable, I shine for others

‘I am a person only through other people’

Do not throw pebbles…

 

ANJUM WASIM DAR pictures-446,born in Srinagar (Indian Occupied )Kashmir,Migrant Pakistani.Educated at St Anne’s Presentation Convent Rawalpindi. MA in English . Writing poems articles and stories since 1980.Published  Poet.Awarded Poet of Merit Bronze Medal  2000 USA .Worked as Creative Writer Teacher Trainer.  Educational Consultant by Profession.


 

 

 

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WE HAVE RISEN SO MANY TIMES

We have risen so many times of faded auroras;

between the shadows and flaps of things

that kill the mornings of illusions.

The price of life auctioned

and the death that walks,

after the poor people

. The anxiety of my word is such (They put me in it, if necessary),

that escapes my hands.

Maybe it’s my certain potion for the one who has nothing,

for the one who lives sheltered from the burden.

For such a tiny eternity,

I try to abolish all distance;

open the successive doors of silences

, raising my voice … confronting injustice …

I bring life,

I decentralize the tricks,

I give you the password to the promised land:

We poets know when the seed is fertile

and we wrote poetry, in the memory of the peoples”

“Nos hemos levantado tantas veces
de auroras desteñidas;
entre las sombras y solapas de las cosas,
que asesinan las mañanas de ilusiones.
El precio de la vida subastado
y la muerte que anda,
tras la gente pobre.
Es tal la ansiedad de mi palabra
(que me amortajen en ella,
si es preciso),
que se me escapa de las manos.
Tal vez sea mi pócima certera
para el que nada tiene,
para aquel que habita
al abrigo del agobio.
Por una eternidad tan pequeñita,
intento abolir toda distancia;
abrir las puertas sucesivas
de silencios,
alzando mi voz…
confrontando la injusticia…
Apalabro la vida,
descentro las argucias,
le doy el santo y seña
a la tierra prometida:
Los poetas sabemos
cuando es fértil la semilla
y escribimos poesía,
en la memoria de los pueblos.”

“A TIEMPO:
No es tarde.
Sigo a pie desandando laberintos de mis penas,
volviendo a construirme
sin errores de cálculo.
Me he visto sucumbir
en tu regazo,
hundirme muda
en la vorágine del tiempo,
como si todos los pecados del mundo
hubieran desvanecido
dentro mío,
inventando distancias…
provocando ausencias…
Me obstino una vez más
a darme por vencida,
a permitir que me arrecien vendavales.
Elijo el cielo
y las golondrinas de mi alma
levantan nuevos vuelos.
Superan la altura de la palabra,
que late entre mis labios
y con un guiño amoroso hacia la vida,
exhalo versos.”

“PALABRAS:
Hay historias y libros
que no atrevo a leer.
Algunos libros hondos,
en los que aún consigues esconderte.
Peldaños de papel que turbulentan mi memoria
y estoy desbaratada en el recuerdo.
Papel inesperado
otoñando mis ojos,
haciendo de la nada un ser latente
y al leerte,
las estrellas muertas
espolvorean mis sentires.
No saldré indemne de tus letras.
¿Cómo explicarte?
Que sigues encerrando mi palabra
entre tus versos…”

“SOY:
Soy la tierra
gestando en la semilla,
la incierta esperanza del rebrote.
Soy la duda de la duda,
soy azote,
capitán de las ternezas de tu alma.
Soy la voz en el silencio,
soy reproche,
de quien quiera matar las ilusiones.
Soy quien habla en el susurro de los vientos.
Soy la flor que vence
a la ceniza.
Soy la calma.
Soy la prisa del sueño de amor
Inmarchitable.
Soy alquimia
y ternura indescifrable,
del corazón deshilachado
de quien sufre.
Soy el nervio que tensiona la palabra.
Soy lo opuesto de lo opuesto.
Soy el tiempo…
que se esconde y eterniza
entre mis versos.
Soy abismo y hondonada,
cordura y sortilegio…
Soy locura
y la pluma que rubrica lo que pienso
Soy acierto y desconcierto.
Soy huella, camino y estocada.
Soy espada que traspasa la injusticia.
Soy caricia.
Soy la meta.
Soy poeta.”

KARI541

KARINA KRENN, 48 years old, Argentine writer, poet, author of “Inmarcesible” (novel for which I was invited to participate in FILH 2019, Cuba). Teacher of initial and middle levels of the Province of Córdoba. Co-founder of “Urpilitay” (containment foundation for orphan children). Cultural promoter and activist for women and people with disabilities. Ambassador of ALMA (Alzheimer) and ACDAC (deaf people). Convinced that poetry is the “weapon of massive construction” of a world that is possible for all.

(KARINA KRENN, 48 años, escritora argentina, poeta, autora de “Inmarcesible” (novela por la cual fui invitada a participar de FILH 2019, Cuba). Docente de niveles inicial y medio de la Provincia de Córdoba. Cofundadora de “Urpilitay”(fundación de contención para niños huérfanos). Promotora cultural y activista en pos de las mujeres y personas con discapacidad. Embajadora de ALMA (Alzheimer) y de ACDAC (personas sordas). Convencida de que la poesía, es el “arma de construcción masiva” de un mundo posible para todos.)

 

 

 


 

 

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RETURN FROM POMPEII

i
I write this from storm clouds
tumbling over a mountain
like ghostly echoes of its
famous volcanic eruption.
I saw them whip by
the train’s window
and decided to ride
them, slipping out of
the passenger car unnoticed
just when you stopped my heart.
The rain of sound would form
meaning with lightning and thunder
if I had not fallen under the spell

of this place that is not formed.

ii
Ashes fell down
from the sky, cinders, molten rock.
The living lay, buried there. Their
corpses eventually dried out, ashes
to ashes and dust to dust transcribed
literally, without translation. In a millennium
and a half, a little longer, the empty spaces
left behind become molds, the dead
become casts of cement.

So it is with the dead.

iii
The memories
of living fall around the lives
once lived, leave a hole in the
pumice. The emptiness fills with words—
narrative and song. That is why I write
with rain drops on your windows
as the train speeds by the valleys
indifferently. That is why the ghosts
do not speak to me or to you.
That is why no one noticed

as I left the train again.

Michael2

MICHAEL  DICKEL has authored six published books and chapbooks (pamphlets) of poetry and short fiction, and published over 200 individually published poems, short stories, and non-fiction pieces, in addition to book-reviews and academic articles—under his birth name, Michael Dickel. His next book will come out summer 2019 from Finishing Line Press (https://tinyurl.com/y3684acu). For Fisher Features, Ltd, he wrote a successful NEH film-development grant and the script for a documentary film on Yiddish theatre. He works as a freelance editor for publishers and individual authors, co-edited Voices Israel Vol. 36 (2010), and served or continues to serve as an editor of one sort or another for several print and online literary periodicals. He has taught writing, literature, and English language in higher education in both the U.S. and Israel. Michael publishes an online blog-Zine (https://MichaelDickel.info/). He is the past chair of the Israel Association of Writers in English. He holds a Bachelor’s in psychology, a Master’s Degree in Creative Writing (Fiction and Poetry concentrations), and a Doctorate in English.


 

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MEET  THE ,#THEGLOBALPOETSCALLFORPEACE CURATOR

&

SECOND NAME OF EARTH IS PEACE ANTHOLOGY EDITOR

MBIZO CHIRASHA is the Poet in Residence at the Fictional Café (International publishing and literary digital space). 2019 Sotambe Festival Live Literature Hub and Poetry Café Curator. 2019 African Fellow for the International Human Rights Art Festival( ihraf.org) , Essays Contributor to Monk Art and Soul Magazine in United Kingdom .Arts Features Writer at the International Cultural Weekly . Founder and Chief Editor of WOMAWORDS LITERARY PRESS. Founder and Curator of the Brave Voices Poetry Journal. Co-Editor of Street Voices Poetry triluangal collection( English , African Languages and Germany) intiated by Andreas Weiland in Germany. Poetry Contributor to AtunisPoetry.com in Belgium. African Contributor to DemerPress International Poetry Book Series in Netherlands. African Contributor to the World Poetry Almanac Poetry Series in Mongolia. His latest 2019 collection of experimental poetry A LETTER TO THE PRESIDENT was released by Mwanaka Media and Publishing and is both in print, on Amazon.com and at is featured at African Books Collective. 2003 Young Literary Arts Delegate to the Goteborg International Book Fair Sweden (SIDA AFRICAN PAVILION) .2009 Poet in Residence of the International Conference of African Culture and Development (ICACD) in Ghana. 2009 Fellow to the inaugural UNESCO- Africa Photo- Novel Publishers and Writers Training in Tanzania. 2015 Artist in Residence of the Shunguna Mutitima International Film and Arts Festival in Livingstone, Zambia. A globally certified literary arts influencer, Writer in Residence and Recipient of the EU-Horn of Africa Defend Defenders Protection Fund Grant, Recipient of the Pen Deutschland Exiled Writer Grant. He is an Arts for Peace and Human Rights Catalyst, the Literary Arts Projects Curator, Poet, Writer, publicist is published in more 200 spaces in print and online

2 thoughts on “TIME OF THE POET:Second Name of Earth is PEACE.

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