raspberry leaves whirl, as flavours of life,
yawning, begin to unfurl …
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dusk falls, day palls,
each moment randomly twirls,
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each minute unveiling fresh swirls …
Tag Archive: African Renaissance
“Rising Hope” – Painting by Karla Beatty
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The Hyperbole of Verbose Hope …
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When wilting despair blossoms into hope,
and life that seemed held together by strings you were always flailing to grope,
the dawn sun cocoons you with its rejuvenating rays,
and you feel the stirrings of being alive once more, crawling out from the desolate maze.
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When the slicing sleet of pain turns into a gentle shower of life-affirming rain,
and life that seemed held together by fingers fractured by the incessant strain,
the song of the birds caress you with their enveloping refrain,
unshackling the emotions that once held you in a vise, meant only to restrain.
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When the days and nights no longer shred you, piece by agonising piece,
and life that seemed held together by a daily renewable lease,
your soul finally soars the scarlet skies with untethered release,
and at long last, you touch the clouds, feeling the filaments of that almost forgotten peace.
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The verbosity of this scribble may seem overdone, but only because finally from the excruciating hyperbolic anguish you know you can now cope,
only because finally you grasp tightly onto long lost hope,
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embracing hope,
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infused by hope,
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pure peaceful hope …
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“Hope” – Painting by Megan Duncanson
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’
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http://www.sahistory.org.za/place/sophiatown
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 … … …
President Nelson Mandela's Inauguration 1994
Madiba lives …
Published in A&U Magazine, May 2013
They left so abruptly,
the valiant ones.
Countless,
many known,
many more nameless.
The truest sons and singers,
husbands and poets,
lovers and wives,
daughters and farmers,
workers and sisters,
brothers and friends.
They left so abruptly,
with quiet pride,
a steely courage,
and a gentle dignity.
They left so abruptly,
leaving us our tomorrows,
brighter!
Hopeful!
filled with promise.
They left so abruptly,
so that we may breathe,
the breath of liberty!
The air of freedom!
The warmth of justice!
They left so abruptly,
leaving with us their parting gift …
freedom!
inkululeko!
swatantrata!
liberte!
azadi!
vhudilangi!
libertad!
esteghlal!
They left so abruptly,
yet we remember them all today,
and in the days to come,
their legacy will light our way!
They left so abruptly,
yet they remain!
Hewn into our memory and conscience,
engraved in our heart!
They left so abruptly,
and yet they endure,
with us,
within us,
now and forever more!
Homo-Naledi at The Cradle of humankind*
shared hopes
on
bloodied earth
of
common dreams
winding along myriad streams
whose
source is here
beneath our multi-hued feet
flowing
into a shared humanity
this shawl that should encompass us all
by
binding us together
a species with blood that is red
always red
for
we are all
the children of Africa
branched off
spread wide
but
of this soil
and
of this earth
foreign to none
hewn as one
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*
Maropeng is a Setswana word meaning ‘returning to the place of our origins’
Scribbled Verse 
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