Poetry April 23, 2015


By Matenneh-Rose L. Dunbar

It does not feel like it happened a year ago
It really did happen to over two hundred
Our hearts have grown, sore numb in time
Sleep has deviated far from our routine
Our lips tremble uncontrollably in prayer
Mr. President please bring back our girls
Bring back our girls…. Now
It will plague generations for posterity
It breaks all hearts as we wait to see them
Our daughters have been in captivity since
Sold to mauraders as maids or for service
Over hills in savannah lands our eyes reach
Mr. Drone locate the desert hideouts now
Bring back our girls…. Now
It has torn nations at the brink of shame
It brought forth the lack of human care
Openly the bandits with arms abducts all
Sheeply for a season but actually wolves
Overtures of religiously not to tie them
Mr. World come together for our peace
Bring back our girls….now

I will never sell you again my brother
By Lekpele M. Nyamalon

My brother, hold my hands as I vow
Before the moon, the sun and earth
With sweat pouring from my brow mixed with my tears
Of anguish, fear and pain
Hear me out
I will never sell you again my brother
You and I could build the walls and farms
Our hands can break a mountain
We can dig beneath the Nile and make a road
Or clear the fields and grow our plantation to feed the world
My brother, this is a pledge
Hold my wrist, let’s make a covenant
Upon the blood of our fathers, we will rebuild our land
And make it glow like a fountain
You see, your might grew those plantations over there
With rice, corn and wheat
But, you see our children die of hunger
Malnourished to the bones
And we worked our lives building their mines
Industry, railroads and bridges
Now, with empty hands we gaze at Africa
No, not again
I will never sell you to the tricks of strangers
With briefcases of money-for our oil, gold and diamonds
And magic to tear us apart
And civil wars to burn our heritage
Bring your hands, let’s fight together
And make our fathers smile from the graves
I will never sell you again.

By Varney L.S. Gean

I was formerly a PRIVATE of those fine used clothes
Downtown Waterside those low-cost ones beckon
At this time a GENERAL of the latest suits from Dubai
I once upon a time sported rubber footwear all year round
Nowadays a CAPTAIN with my modish Arabian shoes
In the past the old underpants the MAJOR care less
A LIEUTENANT knows the barrels got good stuffs
Spot me checking out nice things from Chinatown
Tomorrow I’ll be around for the ones from the Cold
Oh I didn’t say much about the fine shirts from Africa
Oh it makes me a striking COLONEL and people do ask me
In my newest attires moreover heads won’t shop spinning
Oh some good stuffs for SERGEANTS like me right here
Laugh at me folks but great I feel about everything

By Matenneh-Rose L. Dunbar

The spoken things we crave in our lives
The cloudy white thread jumble we hug
The comfort it allures us creates gusto
The wet steps after a must morning dab
The fluffy feel of the sweet scent wraps
The invisible spin lifts my thoughts wide
The touch opposite to my caramel tone
The length as a wall to shield intruders
The powress to warm a cold naked soul
Just…..white and clean
The white to feel free of the dust of sin
The scrub to massage the old so swiftly
The light of pure fills the eyes to dream
The heights of success in a will to trivail
The signals appear as the colors darkens
The pool welcomes a plunge with a daub
The struggle is usual to attain the shine
The winds blow and rejuvinate her filch
The story is about the clean white towel
Just……white and clean

The Hut taxpayer
By Lekpele M. Nyamalon, [email protected]

I was chased
Knocked down
Bundled and beaten
To pay my share
What was my crime?
To live and breathe
In the same space
I had to pay a price?
What was my fare?
Anything I owned
My goats, chickens, mats or cutlass
I was held a captive
I was the intruder
Trespassing on a field
Yet I kept it clean-not for me
I was the hut taxpayer
My grandfather was
My uncle was
And we lived in huts
Built with our hands
While our taxes soared
We sat and watched
Our beneficiaries glowed in style
Living in castles built from our hut taxes.

By J. Lisa Lumeh

Where is South Africa heading?
Why are you killing your brothers?
Can’t you see we are trying to bring our people together?
Her pieces are broken and she is bleeding
Have you been there?
Do you have idea of what you are doing?
Ask Liberia, they’ve been there
Ask Ivory Coast, they’ve been there
Ask Sierra Leone, they’ve been there
They all achieved nothing!
But now trying to put their lives together
Are you destroying the freedom, the love?
The freedom that Mandela suffered for?
He never answered racism with racism
The freedom that Africans can boost of today?
Do you have any idea of what you are doing?
They are your brothers!
They are your blood!
They deserve the best!
Why need each other to survive!
Why are you breaking Africa from the bottom?
Stop the xenophobic attack!
Show love to your brothers!
And we will all rise again!

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