brothers, should it always come to this

Brothers, should it always come to this

Brothers, 
Should we always return to the old tune
Of time and again tuning to counterpoint 

Of the past pain; a throbbing return 
Right at the very tipping point
Of the pinnacle to touch promised power? 

Brothers, how long should we bear
Blood-spattered battles of their 
Own making and their own imagination,

Their own thoughts, and their own creation?
How long should we let the pagans 
Pluck off feathers from our wings

–to which stupid plundering sings – 
Partying the persistence of the polluted plan
As the vampires again and again 

Have the plan prepared and bared
As did our yesteryear’s gods, 
Leaving us without defense, and  in tense?

Let us pound the drums and tom-toms of war
And let us let the reverberating sound soar 
High, high, high up there in the air

As yesteryear’s war songs we prepare
For our juggled and gagged flag to fly
Again against their blood-red raided sky.

Brothers, 
Then let us swallow a little while 
Their bitter bile as we prepare them to pace their last mile

questioning is no sin

Getting sick, dying and rotting we will
For I believe it all is in God’s will.
Suffering in any manner, we will suffer;
For this, God must and will also offer.

[Not that I mean prosperity and peace 
Are of no importance and no substance 
But that is a subject for another piece.

But because that when we grieve
That is when burning and brutal 
Question Marks our heads derive] 

It is health , and no crime though to muse
For God can not give and will not give
Intelligence he intended us not to use.

dead magical moment

Was it a curse 
Meeting you on those golden shores
Of sublime dawns that bless 
When my affection passion no longer flows?

Was it a hex 
Having the wonderful waves caress 
Our legs afore ebbing into the sparkling waters
As we stood on those super sands

That I should consider the waning waves 
Had my love zeal, my love will waned?
Never to love again? Never to clasp beauty
Again?

My heart is love devoid, oh, my love; a skeleton
Of former passions.
The fragrant floret I plucked for you 

Is wrinkled,
And no other is able to resuscitate it 
No matter the watering! 

sad news from home

Brothers Levi, Jordan, Matthews, Joe and Jedden, 
You were sheer shocked as did Sister Hussein
That even this day we can still adjure, argue, advocate,
And advance active activism for the rule of law stolen,
As did Dr Manuele or Orton Chirwa before this date
Who blustered against the egalitarian promise broken;
Or as before them, Rev. Chilembwe’s burst with rage 
Being shocked and choked with downright disbelief 
At the atsamundas’ well premeditated prejudice cage; 
Segregation and Thangata, and such other mischief.
Brothers, that day of shock, you also shade sad tears,
Which many of us here have also done over the years
Seeing that even this day the gods had stolen the show;  
Not for good reasons, but for partying ragged ignorance
Of commoners: of clapping again, of praising as before, 
Egalitarian impotence these present day gods prance
As constructive criticism they castigate; at times cajole
With constipated wallets: aiming to gag, retch reprimand; 
As they throw all to keep the land in the hopeless hole
They had damned it in with their fresh oppressive wand.
Brothers, it is truly sad that even today we expostulate
As the present gods fancy people that do not remonstrate;
Sad they hate to hear the philosophy that does not blush
When it comes to slam their ‘big-man’ mind-set upfront
As was done to the past cruel gods in their groan, and gush
Of verbose at critics, who did not fear their haunt and hunt
But stood firm amidst the god’s aggressive intimidation, 
Jeer, jolly josh, lampoon, lies, lash outs, lectures or leer, 
Or needle and outrageous orates, aimed at the obfuscation
Of the commoners so they fail to question or query this queer
Performance of raging and ranting even this present day
To have this blast from the past, Brothers you saw, at play.

Relax, Uncle Max, Relax

Relax,

Uncle Max

Relax.

As our boat rocks

the stormy streams

Uncle Max

Hold on for a while

We will walk the whole mile

The snakes shall seem

To be with us

But they are not part of us.

All in all

Uncle Max

Do not lend them your ear

Only turn to them

Uncle Max

And say

Snake, I can see

Your spine!

this is in, this is out

This is in, this is out

That one is on,

That one is off

That one is to mourn,

That one is to doff

That one to own,

From within or without

This is the new song of

The gods, perching

Threateningly on the throne

Singing frighteningly

On the telephone.

The song not promised

Earlier on.

chastise

   For how long will you act less than dogs

   By throwing your good morals to hogs

   And your lives in the hands of the unknown

   Very thoughtless, which makes you mourn

   For how long?

   For how long will you smile at your spoil

   That you toil for your future to foil

               As it makes you completely fade

   As it buys you your deathbed

   For how long?

   For how long will you take in the ruins,

   Which commit you to fatality reigns,

   Which swap your survival with ill health,

   Which barters you with death

   For how long?

   For how long will you lounge in this slumber of silliness?

   For how long will you lounge in this slumber?

   For how long will you lounge in this?

   For how long will you lounge?

   For how long will you?

   For how long?

oh, Lazarus

    I was rubbish, so morbid

    Deserving the garbage bin

    I was mongrel, so rabid

    In your cruel eyes, so mean

    I was trash, so sordid

    Deserving no attention.

    Food and the likes at me thrown       

    A wastage, full of stain

                But now that I am dead,

                 This suit, and you in line, and your costly coffin

                And this bottled-beer, even that fat bread

    What do they want and mean?

since the master

I breathe. I live.

I walk. I rush and I   

Pounce in the process.

So shall you breathe. So shall you live.

So shall you walk. So shall you rush

And pounce in the process.

For my thought, move or groove

Is your every thought, move and groove.

So move with content on this

Table of contents of life.

Or do you want to tempt

My patience by a contempt

Of my concept?

I say as my world exists

So yours exists.

I am the voice

So it is your choice.

So do not rumble or mumble a grumble.

Observe stony silence.