No man runs faster than his own conscience.
It may stray and narrow to the distance,
But like shadows, it never really goes
Away, it stays close; like how friends keep foes.
With my past buried deep in ignorance,
Life seemed just fine, until one day’s instence;
Karma cast on me, ex lovers’ shadows
Whose hearts’ shards pierced my heart like sharp arrows.
I stopped in my tracks to look back for once,
I was served humble pie, full of life lessons.
Love does not hurt, it mends; like a rainbow
Cast on dark skies, for a brighter t’morrow.
So in reflecting on faults from our past,
Transitions to brighter futures aren’t lost.
She boasts a multitude golden sand castles, poised; meandering natural southern african pyramids. Hints and pinches of shrubs and savannas dress her delicate skin, whose surface the southern and westerly winds of the Atlantic brush and tone.
She is my motherland, the warm hands that nurtured me and dressed me with a culture and identity. A land adorned with an array of life forms, a variety living together in almost divine harmony. The unforgiving sun burns her skin by day but the icy chills vasoconstrict her landscape under moon and starlight.
She is survivor and saviour, protester and protector. She is my motherland, the Kgalagadi desert, bearer of precious diamonds, both mineral and liberal gems.
Pleasure is a myth, an ancient and coded treasure map promising limitless leisures at every next turn, then more at the next, then the next and next and next…
Pleasure is like candyfloss, always disappearing a moment too soon, then lures you back for more, then a little more, and more and more…
Pleasure is a drug, whom our need for always lingers relentlessly like starving vultures circling the skies for the stench of a carcass.
Pleasure is a liar, a one night stand who promises you the stars but disappears with them when the sun rises.
Pleasure, nonetheless, is an ingredient of life we all need in just the right amounts, not too much and not too little, lest we spoil the recipe.
She seldom speaks with her face
But when she does,
Mould into context
Its every expression and gesture
With eloquent precision.
She articulates the thoughts of her spirit
With smiles and almost forced frowns,
That highlight the wrinkles of her soft and fragile skin.
Each curling line
Cursives the sophistication of her nature,
Harbouring a wealth of history, knowledge and agéd Setswana literature.
But today when I looked my grandmother in the face,
I saw flashes of resemblance mesh at a poetic pace
The faces of all her seven children.
And like a maze of the week’s days,
Glory projected onto this melanin canvas screen,
The varied gazes of all seven kin:
Their smiles and stares,
Features and gestures,
All played like a slide show in her countenance.
One day in the garden of Words, was a child born
To semantic and syntax. Though born into sin and a world torn;
Imperfection found a God, a poet, His creator,
Who sent for him His only begotten son, messiah: context the mediator.
Imperfection became “I’m-perfection”, a new identity he now bore.
For a lonely many years, you’ve
Remained virtuously patient
In an eye for an eye world, where
Either I scratch one’s back, or
No one will scratch mine. I still
Don’t get discouraged ’cause,
Scripture says: we’re friends