I sing into a golden jar.
Songs of heroes long lost,
This sounds will be heard from afar.
Rippling on today’s cost,
When I first met me I thought I was Zulu from South Africa
Cause I naturally had love for the folks in the Town called Cape
And Cyril’s cousin, Chris and I were cool cats
1931 spoke lots about our struggles
When our idol, The Great Britain, became our rival
They are called the godly, richly put
on this ground where holy is lowly
I did not create
I am only death and life.
Just bow, ask nothing.
No clouds exist for you or your type
even prayers mean nothing here.
You are bunch of holy heads
boasting of pure nonsense.
Just look at yourselves
Please break free
From all fantasies,
That render my nights sleepless,
And my days wasted on lies
From all thoughts that keeps
My gaze fixed at your image,
And stare stuck to your smiles
Poetry is when, after seeing a woman pass, instead of just thinking quietly to yourself, ‘Wahala!’ you go home, sit down, take a piece of paper and write: “Without a doubt, you can stop a star in its celestial track. You! Twist it round for chance to see that glorious back. Shall I describe it? Swing and wobble, shake and tremble; that thing behind you will put me in trouble.”
Unhand me dear maiden of these edges,
Unhand me dear maiden of these edges.
I do not seek to be put in your hole,
I do not seek to be put in your hole.
Polygons of freedom, squares of the dead,
lend me your ears, so my words don’t go unheard.
Oh dear mister the one who heals the broken,
I hear of your faith in rides I could enjoy.
Not bad for the one who came through words spoken.
Laughter, Pain, Joy, Sadness I hear you employ
To help fix the dejected and the dying.
I’d love to sit in your counsel with my joy.
Watch the babies grow into children,
And the seeds to full grown plants,
We survey the earth, it will obey,
As the winds of creation still chants.
Groom the children to become adults,
Release the sun to give joy,
It will obey, the earth we survey,
And take out what we have to destroy.
I am a bully, I tame the sun,
Chalks do stutter to obey.
I am a school and my rule is one
Always be yourself, in March or May.
I teach young words to invent their fun,
I don’t teach wards strong dismay.
My rule is a school and I am one
I teach the spirits, those made of clay.
I hear the messages through the thin air,
howling the voices of gods and mortals.
They guide and protect the shadows that pair.
Sometimes they’re keys to open our portals.
Then we summon words to cover them up,
wordsmiths alike to make up fairy tales
of pain and danger stirred in the same cup
of strange emotions, from whence they did hails.