Africa – Hope Resounds

​hope resounds.

hope resounds, across the rolling savanna, easing its way through the deltas, mixed in the silt of the rivers, embroidered in the rain clouds, murmuring in the gentle backwaters, sketched across the spice infused skies.

hope resounds, in the eyes of the children, the heartbeat of the people, the thud-thudding of a continent, through thriving cities, in quiet villages, infused in the soil of the yawning plains, embroidered into the fabric that binds us all.

hope resounds, in the blessings of the ancestors, embedded in the hustle and bustle of the towns, drawing deep breaths within the millions, exhaling the fatigue of countless souls, crackling in the fiery rainstorms, called to earth in the forks of lightning.

hope resounds, in the birdsong of the morning, the drumbeat echoing in between rain forests, the laughter of children at play, the groans of ripe fruit on trees, the sighs of cities asleep in the night, the flapping of birds in dusky flight.

hope resounds, in the hopeful promise of peace, in the joyous celebration of life, in the harmony of the crickets in the grasslands, soaring above the stubborn deserts, in the gurgling of water in the oasis, in sleepy willows, in the happiness carved into strangers face.

hope resounds, as it always has, as it still does, and as it always will. 

hope resounds.

Old Sof’town’ – for Sophiatown

Old Sof’town*

1.

In old Sof’town,
the jazz struck chords,

the jazz lived, it exploded,
out of the cramped homes,
rolling along the streets,
of old Kofifi,

in tune to countless blazing heartbeats.

In old Sof’town,
Bra’ Hugh breathed music, Sis’ Dolly too,
and Bra’ Wally penned poems that still ring true.

In old Sof’town,
Father Trevor preached
equality and justice,
for all, black and white and brown,

and all shades, every hue,
even as oppression battered the people,
black & blue.

In old Sof’town,
the fires of resistance raged,

‘we will not move’ was the refrain,

even as the fascists tore down Sof’town,
with volleys of leaden rain.

In old Sof’town,
the people were herded,
like cattle,
sent to Meadowlands,
far away and cold and bleak,
as the seeds of resistance,
sprouted and flourished,
for the coming battle.

In old Sof’town,
the bulldozers razed homes,
splitting the flesh of a community apart,
only to raise a monument of shame,
and ‘Triomf’ was its ghastly name.

2.

In Jozi today,
we remember those days,
and those nights of pain,
that stung our souls.
like bleak winter rain.

Yes, we remember old Sof’town,
as we struggle onward,
to reclaim our deepest heritage,
and build anew,
a country of all hues and shades,
of black and of white and of brown.

And yes, we will always remember,

and yes, we will never forget,

the price that was paid,
by the valiant sons and daughters,
of old Sof’town,

those vibrant African shades and hues,

of black,
of white,
of brown.

* Sophiatown was also called ‘Sof’town’ and ‘Kofifi’

         __________

http://www.sahistory.org.za/place/sophiatown

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sophiatown

An African Proverb

the perennial exile … … …

fitting in,
acceptably hushed,

alienation photoshopped, airbrushed …

at home ?

not this rolling stone,
bruising my rattled self to the bone,

enveloped by walls,
as each evening falls,

shivering as desolate morning dawns,

painted smile,
shushing rising bile,

my fatigued soul yawns,
a being who fawns:

the perennial exile … … …

Banksy

silly scribbles … … …

what is home to the vagabond soul,
                   spiralling,
                   splintering,

                   skewered,
                   unwhole,

plodding along
                 paths of
              broken glass,

comforting,
                   cajoling,
                   assuring
             my tattered soul:

these desolate moments
               
                  must

                  also
           
                  pass … … …

May the 10th, 1994

President Nelson Mandela's Inauguration 1994

Madiba lives …

the wind carries his name … … …

The Wind Carries His Name

Ernesto Guevara

They shot him down,
to silence a man of flesh and bone.

Even as the bullets tore through him,
the wind carried his name.

Far across the weary fields,
high above the stubborn peaks,
over the blood soaked streams,
the wind carried his name.

They shot him down,
to silence a man of flesh and bone.

Yet the wind carries his name,
to you and to me,
to them and to us.

They shot him down,
but his name resounds,
as it floats on the breeze.

And,

still they try to shoot him down,
to silence us all,
to stifle an ideal.

But the wind cannot be stilled,
and the wind carries his name:

“Che”.

(For Ernesto Guevara)

forgotten decades

yesterday reaches
straining to hear

cries of decades lost

half-forgotten
inaudible

ancient history

now
barely a strand

and that too
adrift

alone

but

but

still
etched

if
for an instant

across endless nights
yet to dawn

hugging hope

years days moments minutes hours months weeks decades,

pockmarked,
weary,

skidding,
clinging onto,
raging roads,

hobbled,
shovelled,
dragged deep,

wrestling demons without,
within,

yet always,
always,

hugging hope,

as night yawns,
and a new day dawns …