Archive for December 10, 2018

A few more Days

Artwork from Google

a few more days … … …

as the branch of the oak sashays,

solitary palms undulate, and sway,

i count the days,

till i feel your loving gaze,

your soul, your heart ablaze,

i count the days,

till our separate ways,

dispel the haze,

i count the days,

when seeing you will make my eyes with desire glaze,

i count the days,

mattering not what cards fate plays,

i count the days,

till destiny’s highways,

merge, embracing the sun’s scorching rays,

for as awake this man lays,

the need, the hunger, the desire aching and ravenous, stays,

as i think of you,

counting the days,

until our seduced souls through the night skies blaze,

i count on you,

counting the days,

when the need for each other whisperingly says,

for you, i have crested the waves,

knowing my hunger for you may be a craze,

a craze that shall abide, firmly rooted, in nights and in days,

as i remain still,

counting these remaining moments, for you my being entire craves,

i lie awake,

counting the days,

lying awake, counting these minutes, these days … … 

Artwork from Google

Artwork from Google

I am the Heartbeat of Africa …

I am the heartbeat of Africa. The blood flowing through its veins, and I have seen much. I have witnessed the the pummelling of peoples under the jackboot of colonialism, the plunder of wealth, stripping bare the very veins I flow through. I have urged the collective to stand tall, amidst the horrors of history. It has not been easy, the tyranny of centuries has left scars, raw scabby festering sores, my thumping scarlet oozing out of myriad pores, rendering the great continent pained, hollow … but still, and yet, I course inside millions of souls, refusing to capitulate, thick with hopes for the day and the days after the day. I have placated the wounded, the multitudes forgotten, the bodies seeking respite from the loss, the anger, the deprivation of spirits undimmed by the splintered darkness of racial prejudice. I have seen so much, children torn from loving embraces, mothers holding on, as the world turns its face away, conveniently absolving itself of its crimes. I have felt the hardening of arteries, the will to fight on, despite the overwhelming odds.

yes, I am the blood of Africa. 

and I shall continue to flow, coaxing my people to rise again, to summon up the valiant spirits of the ancestors, to stand and to fight against the insidious doublespeak of tongues, silken tongues peddling instruments of death, shunning the divides that separate one from another, to rise and greet the fresh blazing African sun, each day, every day, until that day when the daily battles cease, when the battles are done. 

yes, I am the blood of Africa, and I shall flow ever on, sowing hope where desolation stalks the evenings, I am hope for tomorrows dawn, for despite and inspite of it all, the new day of peace, of renewed hope, must be, must be born …

Artwork from The Nelson Mandela Foundation

Artwork from Google

I am Hope …

I am the hope that soars, high above our shared African lands – a hope that skips over rainbows, the hope that trudges over the horrors of yesterday.

I am hope, smiling through tears that stain the soil, the hope that echoes across the valleys and plains, I am the hope of days to come.

I am hope, thud-thudding in countless hearts, lost at times amidst the detritus of history. 

I am hope.

embrace me, do not turn me away, hug me as I yearn to hug you. cherish me as I do you.

I am hope. I will prevail …

From Google

Artwork by Banksy

a child of war and terror …


as she lies bleeding,

the girl who skipped, hopped to school,

all of nine and a half years old,

with ribbons in her hair and a laugh that was her father’s pride.


as she lies bleeding,

shrapnel lodged in her torn stomach,

she stares at her skipping rope,

blood soaking it the colour of cherries her mother buys.


as she lies bleeding,

she sees human shapes all around, thick in the black smoke,

blurred visions of scattering feet, 

shoes left behind,

hearing nothing but the pinging in her smashed eardrums.


as she lies bleeding,

she slips away and then she is dead,

a mangled heap of a nine and a half year old girl,

whose laugh was her father’s pride.



as she lies bleeding,

even in death she bleeds some more,

shrapnel wedged in her torn stomach,

stealing the light from her bright innocent eyes.

as she lies bleeding …

in jallianwala bagh in ‘19,

johannesburg in ’93,

leningrad in ‘42,

freetown in ‘98,

soweto in ‘76,

beirut in ‘85,

hanoi in ‘68,

st. bernadino,





tel aviv,










aleppo still,

ghouta now.


as she lies bleeding,

a little nine and a half year old girl,

whose laugh was her parent’s pride,

we know she’ll bleed more,

tomorrow and in many tomorrows yet unborn,

with shrapnel in her stomach,

ripped open and torn.


as she lies bleeding,

a child of war and terror …

Artwork by Banksy

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