Poetry Bulawayo

My Life By Michael Lee Johnson

2023-02-19T08:39:00.001-08:00

My life began with a skeleton

with a smile and bubbling eyes

in my garden of dandelions.

Everything else fell off the edge,

a jigsaw puzzle piece cut in half.

When young, I pressed

against my mother’s breast,

but youthful memories fell short.

I tried at 8 to kiss my father,

but he was a welder, fox hunter,

coon hunter, and voyeuristic man.

My young life was a mixture

of black, white, dark dreams,

and mellow yellow sun bright hopes.

Rewind, sunshine was a stranger

in dandelion fields,

shadows in my eyes.

I grabbed my injured legs

leap forward into the future.

I’m now a vitamin C boy

it keeps me immured

from catching colds or Covid-19.

Everything now still leaks, in parts,

but I press forward.

My Hero by Skaps The Advocate

2019-11-20T01:17:00.002-08:00

Our journey has not been a smooth journey

Its never been sweet and rosey

Its been Bumpy and full of storms

With a patient and loving driver

She is my hero

She is my mother

Swollen feet and High blood pressure

Unpredictable and unreasonable cravings

Supercharged moods and happy moments

A burgeoning tummy

You carried me nine months

Of sicknesses and no medication

You are my hero

You are my mother

In celebrating you

I celebrate your love

I celebrate your bravery

I celebrate your patience

Mama to show me the way

You would slap my right cheek

Cane me when angry but with great love

You could punish me

To give direction not to hurt me

How I wish I could do the same to my Norma

I can only watch and say stop it

We have been schooled and colonised by the west

Mama you toiled

Worked hard and you still do

For me and my siblings you never rested

For us to have the precious meal on our table

From changing my diapers to my life coach

Mama you my hero

Mama i toiled worked my fingers out

Worked in the fields before and from school

As a child I saw a wicked and abusive mother

The western culture sees child labour

As an adult now I see a great teacher in you

You trained a winner

I love you mama

Mama you my hero

Now it’s the time

The time you sit down

Sit and be served like a queen

Take off the apron

It's the time I toil and put food on your table

Its time I changed your torn and patched wardrobe

From a servant to a queen

Mama you my hero

I love you

Freedom by Zee Nyathi

2019-11-06T22:46:00.002-08:00

You’re too mortal to understand

Why, I -

With this body

You call ’to die for ’

Still choose not to bandage my limbs

Or cripple my soul.

I dress the way I do

Not because of fashion deformity.

If it wasn't against the law,

I would walk naked

But I understand,

Ragged chic, Bohemian chic

Is as close I will ever get to Eden!

My being is expression

of freedom & spirituality.

The Overdue Letter by Matewe Dumisani Albert

2019-10-30T21:04:00.001-07:00

I don’t eat chicken, may you please give me a job

Electricity, water and proper health care system

Oh! and papa this poem is too small for everything I need

But we can start with the ones that I mentioned

I do work and go to school simultaneously

Who said only women are good at multitasking?

As old as I am, which other future for me is in preparation?

Or you just want to boost up my tension?

Ngazviende!!! Hatizvide!!! Zvii zvacho?

Will this war cry make everyone else feel macho?

How do I succeed with?

Nothing else is selfish than a croc

If you can hear us, we are down here

The people you stepped on climbing up there

Do you know what happens when your time is up to be again down here?

You need the same people to step on from up there

I am claustrophobic, from this shell how do I penetrate?

I mean like at one point I thought Zimbabwe was lit

Before we faced this bottomless pit

Young Couple @ Heart Attack Greasy Grill by Michael Lee Johnson

2019-09-23T01:13:00.003-07:00

I was a little boy,

tad hillbilly son,

patterned then in

present tense,

hardly old enough

tall enough to work

nor notice if I had pubic hair-

large or small endowment

growing up self-conscious

about short comings

narrow chest.

Just a teen aged nighttime boy

looking 4 a part-time hook up-

little girl play, with a five-card stud.

Preacher daddy raised me,

back-seat Christian boy

low on faith high on doobie

rolled cigarettes.

I took my 1st job, pancake flipper

@ Heart Attack–Greasy Grill, 24-7

pocket coins 4 tips, a few greasy dollars,

pancake short stack, secret menu was that

boss’s daughter, blood on hands,

my bun busted now stale, stained, & baked.

Eliminate lines unessential:

waitress injected me some spice

old time recipe.

The Next One by Holly Day

2019-09-23T00:56:00.002-07:00

Image - https://13isyourluckynumber.wordpress.com/

she rolls over and sighs in her sleep

a song of distant cherubs

such a tiny, slight sound

the sound of the sun rising.

she reaches for me

instinctively

slips soft hands into

my worn palms, fingers that feel

too old.

She Likes to Hurt Me by Robert Beveridge

2017-08-08T22:07:00.002-07:00

Image - http://mytravelsmylife.blogspot.com/2010/03/man-and-dog.html

She called

on what would have been

our anniversary

to say

that she and her pusher

are getting married

on what would have been

our wedding day

so I told her

even if it wasn't true

I eloped

with her dog

and we had bought

a house in Tijuana

and we would never

even send her a postcard

The Infirm by Natasha Chebet Mutai

2017-07-30T06:42:00.000-07:00

I can’t feel the pain anymore

The monster is no more

But the trauma is in yet

His cold grip of iron squeezes

Tears cascade down my visage

I’m sad beyond salvage

Destroyed

Worn out

I saw him

He winked

I squeaked

As he shortened the distance

I suffered to elongate it

I turned,

Ran…. skipped puddles in the rain

But when I turned,

His yellow tainted canines

Black with rot at the gums

Were right behind me

The grin spelt death

As he let out a cold breath

I shuddered at his mere sight

I froze as his hand rose

He grabbed me

Wrestled me to the ground

And there I lay before him

His unsated hunger

Dangerous lust

And deep-rooted libido

Etching dangerously in his eyes

His touch as cold as ice

Like the crawls of a thousand mice

Then came the pain so excruciating

The unbearable torture

His was no excursion

Only lust that was poison

Naked

Stranded

Branded and paraded

Rendered valueless

Useless

Helpless!

I still feel the pain

Too painful to measure

My priceless body tortured

Humiliated and dismantled

For his pleasure

All for his gain

I can’t find the innocence

In my dreams I feel his presence

Was it of any essence?

I see my blood

As it flowed

The tears fell

My cries hitting solid wall

And now-

Now to love I must

This destroyed body

Still shaken

No hope

Yet he is all over

Free as a bird

While I am caged

In the memory of his injustice

I’m to nothing

I live because I survived

I speak because I exist

I am Khanga by Khwezi

2016-10-09T15:06:00.001-07:00

I wrap myself around the curvaceous bodies of women all over Africa

I am the perfect nightdress on those hot African nights

The ideal attire for household chores

I secure babies happily on their mother’s backs

Am the perfect gift for new bride and new mother alike

Armed with proverbs, I am vehicle for communication between women

I exist for the comfort and convenience of a woman

But no no no make no mistake …

I am not here to please a man

And I certainly am not a seductress

Please don’t use me as an excuse to rape

Don’t hide behind me when you choose to abuse

You see

That’s what he said my Malume

The man who called himself my daddy’s best friend

Shared a cell with him on [Robben] Island for ten whole years

He said I wanted it

That my khanga said it

That with it I lured him to my bed

That with it I want you is what I said

But what about the NO I uttered with my mouth

Not once but twice

And the please no I said with my body

What about the tear that ran down my face as I lay stiff with shock

In what sick world is that sex

In what sick world is that consent

The same world where the rapist becomes the victim

The same world where I become the bitch that must burn

The same world where I am forced into exile because I spoke out?

This is NOT my world

I reject that world

My world is a world where fathers protect and don’t rape

My world is a world where a woman can speak out

Without fear for her safety

My world is a world where no one, but no one is above the law

My world is a world where sex is pleasurable not painful

Edict to Africa by Sibonokuhle Ndhlovu-Ncube

2016-05-25T02:13:00.003-07:00

Image -

http://www.anglo-sanye.com/images/africa_gold.jpg

Land that hid the King of Kings, Selah

Plundered of many yet undiminished

Your frenemies have been unmasked!

Their conundrum on invocations will no longer confuse you

With prescience, let your leaders arise

Let them rule justly under delegation and reverence of the Almighty;

For it can no longer be the blood of liberation that rules

But that of the One whose blood speaks better things than that of Abel!

Let the King return to his throne

Let the King of glory return to his throne!

Then ancient gates will break asunder, ancient principalities

Demoted from your spiritual gates;

Land that hid the King of Kings

And gave the shoulder of Simon to bear the cursed cross;

Liberated from man but subject to God –

Cattle on a thousand hills belong to Him;

You have been given Cape to Cairo and the world to feed all, for all!

Beneficiation, appropriation, sustainable development, accountability,

Ubuntu, let all anthems ring – after having done all look to your king and live!

May God forgive and bless our land.

Susan by Holly Day

2016-01-24T07:09:00.001-08:00

I stood and watched you sleeping, had

stood there watching for nearly five minutes in

the shadow of the

hallway for nearly five minutes of circus

time before I dropped your purse on the chair, quiet as death

and slipped quietly out the door, defying

detection. Your bare back

was open to anyone and everyone coming in, bareback

riders slip in through the cracks of hotel security all the time, defying

even little girl sanctity. Yesterday, I dreamt of your death

how I would deal with it, wondering if you survived the circus

of the imaginary midnight ambushes that haunted my mind, the

big sister duties I’d imposed upon myself stuck in

my head, driving me crazy--Why didn’t you call this morning? I had

this idea of how this would all work out, I had

it all planned out, but I can’t play everyone’s mother, not in

this life. I’m stretched too thin as it is. The

alarm clock rings in my head before true circus

time, and I can’t sleep for worrying about you, little girl—death.

Nobody is going to come when you scream. It defies

all logic, but it’s true. You left your bare back

open all night. Please tell me you lock your door now.

Please tell me

you’re all right.

Sometimes by Cosmas Chivandire

2016-01-14T04:52:00.002-08:00

Image (c) - Mgcini Nyoni

for Aundretta Conner Farris

Our mangoes are rich here

but in Istanbul,

time can fold in on itself like memories

tying knots with blood vessels,

one can appear as if in a dream today

and be gone tomorrow.

The dried apricots you eat

paint your hands a sapphic yellow

like a savanna locked in mid-step with a prairie

to look is to fall in love

like Gauguin out of Paris, sauntering

or Coltrane and Naima for something smooth.

I follow your native gaze to Antalya

as a penny for your thoughts (living off the measure)

in order to pilfer a story

in which you give far more than you receive

Denny, skulk off to the ramparts with me at midnight

and we will bribe a fisherman besides,

Bulawayo is fine this time of year

sometimes, it rains on a perfectly sunny day

and the old folks say that it is a monkey's wedding.

The streetwise local boy slash erstwhile pocket thief

you save from a sure beating by the vegetable

stands will call you Amai, meaning you are still

the end and beginning of all things

and he will repay you in overripe mangoes.

Man with the Can by Donal Mahoney

2015-12-28T22:50:00.000-08:00

Image (c) Carol Bales

Every morning

before the sun comes up

there’s a feral cat on our deck

waiting for a can of Fancy Feast.

It’s been that way for years.

It’s not always the same cat

because feral cats come and go

but barring a downpour of rain

or an overnight pile of snow

there’s always a cat

outside our door, looking

through the screen

waiting for service,

sometimes licking its lips.

The same cat can appear

at the door for weeks,

months, even years.

They’re close friends

with my wife but not with me.

We aren’t enemies but

the cats favor my wife.

I understand why.

The cats find our house, I think,

not because the cat underground

says the food’s good but

somehow the cats know

my wife was a farm girl

that barn cats loved before

she went off to college and

took a job in the city.

I think they begin to believe

my wife is one of them

because almost every summer

she comes out in the afternoon

and sits on the deck and

the morning cat comes back

over the fence and hops up

on her lap for a serious petting.

Over the years the cats and I

have been acquaintances at best.

They know I’m the one who puts

the can out before dawn

while my wife sleeps in.

But not one of them has ever

cozied up to me, the caterer,

or why not call it as it is,

the man with the can.

I have no problem with that

even if the best greeting

I can expect is caterwauling

on the rare morning I’m slow

popping the lid.

The Devil's Footman by Cosmas Chivandire

2015-12-11T03:26:00.002-08:00

Image (c) : www.mgcininyoni.wordpress.com

Harangued by voiceless

apparitions from numerous

encounters with his own limits

as a man, the comrade ruminates,

considers his life.

In the days when tuxedos were all the rage

he could use a bowtie to suppress

the truth inside his epiglottis, a

Russian here-a Belgian there.

He still remembers

that time when he would speak

or conjure, how his men danced

as women wept while

he, cool as a bassist

could raise a battalion with a finger,

a village with a thumb.

Today he collects

mostly smoked cigarette

butts on Barrow Street

for attempting to distort

not only the truth

in this world, but that

which lives within the fields

of our imagination.

Sterner Stuff by Gary Beck

2015-11-22T08:06:00.001-08:00

Lust for power,

prestige, privilege

provides the energy

propelling the few

to outdistance many.

The urge to attain

fruits of ambition

drives seekers

to forget compassion,

ignore morality,

renounce decency

and crush whoever

gets in their way.

Endless thoughts by Collin Banda

2015-10-06T05:18:00.001-07:00

Image (c) - www.mgcininyoni.wordpress.com

If l should die
And you should live,
Because l could not stop for death
He kindly stopped for me,
Do not make the same mistake
Least you end up being here with me.
Live life with a purpose,
To serve God and save humanity.
Seek pure joy and the rest will be added.
It’s so funny how all seems clear
As l look on from this place.
How l wish someone had told me
Just like l am telling you.
All is vanity.
Just like the mist in the air
It will all disappear.
Joy, love and happiness
This is the essence of life.
The place l am seems a bit quiet
And hence l took this time to write to you.
I died and you lived,
Because l could not stop for death
He kindly stopped for me,
Do not make the same mistake
Least we end up writing together from here.

My Rose by Njabulo Moyo

2015-09-17T08:48:00.002-07:00

Image - www.mgcininyoni.wordpress.com

By your side like an aide

I stand not because I have stood here before

I stand because you understand

I stand here…

Though my heart is in pain

I won't complain

I stand by your side

Through dry times

Winter and rain

I stand here

Inside the warmth of your heart

There is true love that I cannot fight

You are my joy through the pain

The truth in my lies

I stand here even though many have told me…

To move on

To leave

To cowardly run away

I stand here...

Here I stand

Right next to cupid

Even though like Eve your words deceive

Comeuppance by Tempest Brew

2015-09-14T05:49:00.000-07:00

Image - www.mgcininyoni.wordpress.com

there is a cosmic

way

the story unravels

and

the main character

gets

his reward while

villains

find their demise

and

that's all fine and

good

the way it should

Cecil the Lion, R.I.P. by Donal Mahoney

2015-08-05T05:12:00.003-07:00

Image -

www.express.co.uk

We know the story about

Cecil the Lion in Zimbabwe

killed by an American dentist

who paid a guide to find him

a lion he could kill

with a bow and arrow.

The guide lured Cecil, a lion,

off a wildlife preserve, using

the stench of a dead animal

roped to the top of his vehicle.

The dentist’s arrow wounded

Cecil but it took hours to locate

the lion and kill him with a rifle.

No word yet as to whether Cecil’s

heart, brains and liver were shipped

the way a Planned Parenthood staffer

said her New York agency ships

smaller hearts, brains and livers.

Pruning by JD DeHart

2015-07-16T12:44:00.002-07:00

Image - www.mgcininyoni.wordpress.com

Earth gives only so much

and does not always cooperate.

We gather and steam

and work and regale each

Hero Checklist by Mgcini Nyoni

2015-06-21T10:00:00.000-07:00

If a man fights gallantly for his country

If a man decimates the enemy

and liberates his country

If the same man goes on to rape and murder

Is he a hero?

If a man feeds the hungry

clothes the cold

and shelters the homeless

If the same man then molests little ones

Is the man still worthy of praise?

If a man who fought gallantly for his country

Loots resources meant for many

Is that man a hero?

If there was a hero checklist

Would rape, murder and looting be on that list?

If the right hero checklist was used

Would our heroes be heroes?

Siren of the Streets by Donal Mahoney

2015-06-03T04:41:00.001-07:00

Photo by Carol Bales

Whenever she comes by

it's always the same thing.

I make her comfortable

and then she leaves.

I tell her she's a harlot

hooking up all night

with God knows who

but in her case God

looks the other way.

Curious neighbors

ask if I know her.

I ask them do I look

like that kind of man?

Peter denied Christ thrice

but I make Peter a piker

when it comes to denying

this siren of the streets.

Once in a while a neighbor,

smitten as I am, takes her in

because she's attractive

and it's peaceful until

some morning very early

she's on my deck again

heartbroken, forlorn,

willing to do anything

for a nosh and a drink.

Since no one is up

at that hour to see me

I sit on the deck

and she leaps on my lap

and I stroke her until

she's a Lamborghini

purring at a red light.

Then she drives off,

leaving me on the deck

heartbroken, forlorn.

She must have been spayed.

Never had any kittens.

What might Pope Francis

think about this?

Her kittens, after all,

would have been beautiful

just as she is,

harlot or not.

Ruhi (My soul) by Brihintha Burggee

2015-03-10T01:01:00.000-07:00

You're only a blurred image,

Of smiles, affection and piety

A fragile mirage,

I breathe in every moment.

You are the whisper of every prayer,

From a heart whose longing has left it barren!

My ruhi, my qalbi –

Every night you sneak into my bed,

Thrusting a map from my heart to yours,

Tracing away ancient grief with your fingers,

One detour at a time until dawn breaks in,

And you point to your chest, “This is your home”.

I am lost to handful of mornings,

Jealous of the silence of wakefulness that pulls you away,

Like the ocean teasing the shore only to leave it parched.

Ruhi : Soul

Qalbi: Heart

Feline in Winter by Donal Mahoney

2015-03-06T07:26:00.003-08:00

Photo by Carol Bales

Some days you think the cat will stay till summer comes,

this Prodigal Son you've fed for years, this feral cat

who comes and goes and comes again when hunger strikes.

But he just eats and leaves your porch,

despite the pillows plumped for a Sultan’s duff.

He disappears in falling snow

only to appear again outside your door at dawn,

his green eyes dancing when he sees you bring

his mound of kibble, topped with tuna,

and his bowl of milk. Some days he mounts

the pillows for a nap. At noon, however,

he begins to yowl. He wants out again

to parade triumphant down the walk,

his tail an exclamation point. He romps

across the snow and fits beneath the fence.

He's gone again. Out of sight.

He plans to spend another evening

where the feral cats hold services.

They yowl and fight and copulate

till hunger strikes and then

this Prodigal Son comes back and sits

outside your door with tail wound round

and waits for you to bring his kibble,

topped with tuna, and his bowl of milk.

Then, he's gone again. Out of sight.

Lovers In The Park by Zibusiso Mpofu

2015-02-12T11:39:00.001-08:00

Image : https://www.facebook.com/MgciniNyoni

They never tangle their feet together

Their words start as if to stop

Always in low monotones, subdued and silent

They always touch briefly

In comfort, conversing with the breeze

As they sit among the quiet Sunday clouds

Their brief touches always set fire to the rapid wind

Engaging the sky and its keepers

Therein lies pleasure and pain, history

First dates, kisses, fights, separations

elevations, secrets, nights and affairs

Pleasure and pain