Saturday, 23 March 2013

Tea with Voltaire

A penning of my thoughts inspired by dVersePoets , we're having A cup of tea with Miss Marple over at the bar with Claudia. 


Should I stutter by way of confession?
Even now his smile seems to me like a grimace;
Never had he the courage to feign a concession
His regal spirit his worthy solace.
Violent underlings guised as leaders
Perched on high seats of counsel
Discussing, consorting, plotting-

Building a barrage against a friend to the nation;
The friend’s beautiful mind his only bastion.
High walls they built to keep him from the people;
Walls that caged their own defeatist minds 
Blinded by wrath they spoke against you friend, 
Words that crossed rivers, watered spiritual fields;
Opened a narrow eye leading to a life saved.

Yes confess I shall, in time
How oft’ I sat thinking, reasoning, questioning your motives
Digging through the depths of my bigot mind-
I cannot conclude, you are too wide for my little modern form,
Your invariable mind overpowers my weak thoughts.

I’d like to discuss matters of faith with you,
Shed a light on your path.
Opinions being the abstract and life experience the focal
Speak about God in my life, tell you of the roads we’ve travelled together
Nights I lay awake, conversing with Him 
Only to wake to a miracle on my doorstep.
I could tell you about the comfort I sought when a friend I lost,
When He was my Friend and Guide;
He revealed himself through words and works,
Lying on a death bed I called out to Him and again, He heard my cry
My imperfect life needs no mouthpiece
But perfect peace I find in Him.

Your journey was no different  from that of Jesus’ disciples-
In and out of prisons they buoyantly strode,
Stripes on their backs bore witness to a life.
They wouldn’t renege on their chosen path
Never would they forsake the ascended Gallelian;
The law scorned, bribed and murdered,
Barking orders from their seats of glory.
Jesus was magnified even so.

“Mr Voltaire, I only have one thing to ask of you,
Tell me of your journey with the Gallilean.”

:Candy Morrow


Sunday, 17 March 2013

Their Yesturdays

Image source: Google Images


Hair? Indian
Nose? English
Shoes? Italian
Nails? French
Accent? American
Skin? Undefined
Blood? African


Hair? Mocked by the oppressor’s pencil.
Nose? Ridiculed and shunned by he who knew no better, for it’s strength.
Shoes? The bare soles which tarried and ploughed the enemy’s field.
Nails? Scrubbed, sewed, built the oppressor’s home while their own homes lay in shambles.
Accent? Their voices were silenced with bullets while the oppressor vowed to silence them yet.
Skin? Charred by the harsh rays of the African, sun toiling for the enemy’s enrichment.
Blood? African

Yet still they trudged on-
Fought for their voices to be heard.
Streams of blood, soil and tears flowed the streets of our land
Their voices rose higher, swelled with oceans of pain
They could not be silenced yet.

They fought so the pencil would be a friend and not the enemy’s vice
That their nose would distinguish Africa from the world
They marched the streets barefoot that their children may walk as Kings and Queens on their land
They endured handcuffs and beatings so their children should be saved
They sang, shouted and cried for Freedom
Assaults, bullets and prisons where their homelife
Their blood was shed for Africa,
a continent of Kings and Queens stripped of their grandeur
bestowed on the Oppressor

We wear the enemy’s mind
Walk with our borrowed nose in the sky
Walk over their blood in the enemy’s feet
Work their fields with pride
Speak in their tongues against their fathers
Hiding behind a mask, ashamed of our skin
Your blood will forever be, African.

Candy Morrow