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November 8, 2013
Hanging around AuthorFriend of Solomon Mahlangu, freedom fighter in South Africa in late1970s as the wind blows south the poplar tree saps black blood soaked are roots with pride
The day they fell AuthorFriend of Solomon Mahlangu He stands before the great woods Arms stretched, bracing the storm of machines They roar and bark, trying to break his wall But he stays put, Save the Forests he screams The tress stand tall, lush and green Seedlings sprout, Flowers bloom Animals frolic in their wonderland Is the forest really meeting it's doom? He stands before the great woods Protecting everything it confides Many plants and animals are within Away from the human eye they hide Even if you have never seen them Just take a step inside The feeling of life the smell of grass Do u really want them all to die? The machines don't care Around the forest they continue to surround They have never seen the wind And never heard the sounds They never felt the wind against their faces Never heard the rustling of leaves Never seen the life in the forest Never understood that it brings relief Fire shoots up as the forest screams Roars and crackles follow too Animals run, plants sink to the floor As the machine consumes the forests full The trees spend decades growing up The animals spend years moving in But it only takes seconds to burn it down To burn the forest into the size of a pin What has the forest done he wonders As He stands in front of the orange blaze To deserve this kind of torturous pain With Heat and sorrow right in his face
Reality Erin K. The dreams in which I still incase myself in cease to exist in reality resulting in my insanity sitting in my chair, pulling my hair, screaming that lifes never fair. looking into the clouded mirror my reflection's distorted because of society Every mistake seems to evolve into more haste screaming no but its too late its either shes got me bruised and bloodied, or hes already creeped into the buttons of my crisp white blouse. Im constantly howlin angry, withering away inside myself Daddys got the belt Help me, someone please Im always nervous but Ive learned to conceal it cause once someone catches a glimpse I may as well take the leap, pop some pills, or hang the rope.
A Mother in a Refugee Camp Chinua Achebe No Madonna and Child could touch Her tenderness for a son She soon would have to forget. . . . The air was heavy with odors of diarrhea, Of unwashed children with washed-out ribs And dried-up bottoms waddling in labored steps Behind blown-empty bellies. Other mothers there Had long ceased to care, but not this one: She held a ghost-smile between her teeth, And in her eyes the memory Of a mother's pride. . . . She had bathed him And rubbed him down with bare palms. She took from their bundle of possessions A broken comb and combed The rust-colored hair left on his skull And then-humming in her eyes-began carefully to part it. In their former life this was perhaps A little daily act of no consequence Before his breakfast and school; now she did it Like putting flowers on a tiny grave.
Knowing Robs Us Chinua Achebe Knowing robs us of wonder. Had it not ripped apart the fearful robes of primordial Night to steal the force that crafted horns on doghead and sowed insurrection overnight in the homely beak of a hen; had reason not given us assurance that day will daily break and the sun's array return to disarm night's fantastic figurations-each daybreak would be garlanded at the city gate and escorted with royal drums to a stupendous festival of an amazed world. One day after the passage of a dark April storm ecstatic birds followed its furrows sowing songs of daybreak though the time was now past noon, their sparkling notes sprouting green incantations everywhere to free the world from harmattan death. But for me the celebration is make-believe; the clamorous change of season will darken the hills of Nsukka for an hour or two when it comes; no hurricane will hit my sky and no song of deliverance.
Benin Road Chinua Achebe Speed is violence Power is violence Weight is violence The butterfly seeks safety in lightness In weightless, undulating flight But at a crossroads where mottled light From trees falls on a brash new highway Our convergent territories meet I come power-packed enough for two And the gentle butterfly offers Itself in bright yellow sacrifice Upon my hard silicon shield.
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