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PROTEST POET

Because poetry is a language

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PROTEST POET | bhekumusamoyo.blogspot.com Reviews
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Because poetry is a language
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1 my daughter
2 dark
3 stalking like ghosts
4 licking their lips
5 googl/uwtwyu
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PROTEST POET | bhekumusamoyo.blogspot.com Reviews

https://bhekumusamoyo.blogspot.com

Because poetry is a language

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1

RISE AND SHINE MY SISTER - PROTEST POET

http://bhekumusamoyo.blogspot.com/2014/05/rise-and-shine-my-sister.html

RISE AND SHINE MY SISTER. RISE AND SHINE MY SISTER. In the four corners of your house (stinking). Closed up by laws and policies (oppressive). Cramped by security watchmen. And cultural impediments-(threatened) Dream. Dream against all oppression. Dream and let your vision break prison bars and walls. Let the inner spirit freely, visit parliament and pay a visit to the president. Dream and believe you are invincible; you can fall and rise again. Dream having the best jobs and looking all beautiful. Just ...

2

PERFOMANCES - PROTEST POET

http://bhekumusamoyo.blogspot.com/p/perfomances.html

21-23 October 2010: International Protest Art Festival. 30 October 2010: AMANI Anti-Xenophobia Concert,Khayelitsha Capetown. 5 December 2010: Bulawayo Residents' Conference,City Hall. 10 December 2010: Jahunda Community Arts Festival,Gwanda. HIFA 2011-26 April to 1 May 2011. Poetry Popourrie Bulawayo-29 June 2011. Intwasa Arts Festival Bulawayo- 26 September 2011. Blantyre Arts Festival Malawi- 7-9 October 201. Mwezi Walala Festival- August 2012. Intwasa Festival- September 2012. If I die today. Imagine ...

3

Just a Letter - PROTEST POET

http://bhekumusamoyo.blogspot.com/2014/04/just-letter.html

It was just a letter. Meant to make things better. The scab of the matter. A letter. Just a silent page. Canvassing emotions of rage. So silent like a lion in a cage. Many it can offstage. 8220;Dear My Front men. Why you want us now to say Amen. Man, we are all men. Leave us, I say with this pen”. He never wrote back. He just sent his boys to crack. A whip on them like whack! And to them to go back…. This is a product of a pen. Ink on paper in black and white. Why then are others red and bruised. RISE AN...

4

NO DEATH - PROTEST POET

http://bhekumusamoyo.blogspot.com/2014/04/no-death.html

Imagine a life with no death, when. I shoot you, a party is organized. We pass by the graveyard dancing. Then back home where your mother is hit. By the celebrating vehicles, she. Breaks her leg then you wish she died. Just because your prophet said she attempted on your life. I wonder what witches can do during their pastime. Reviewed by Bhekumusa Moyo. Subscribe to: Post Comments ( Atom ). If I die today. THE DAY OF THE AFRICAN STREET CHILD. RISE AND SHINE MY SISTER. BEAT THEM TO DEATH. As they starve ...

5

WHO IS THE PROTEST POET - PROTEST POET

http://bhekumusamoyo.blogspot.com/p/who-is-protest-poet.html

WHO IS THE PROTEST POET. Bhekumusa Moyo is a passionate performing poet who has won contests and Poetry slams in Zimbabwe but all across the southern Africa. He has shared the stage with the region’s known voices in local, regional and International Festivals. He has shared his written works in online poetry platforms like Poetry Bulawayo. And has contributed in various published Anthologies locally and internationally. His poetry has been used. During the Intwasa Festival. In the same year with Albert N...

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www.scribbledn.blogspot.com: February 2014

http://scribbledn.blogspot.com/2014_02_01_archive.html

Sunday, 2 February 2014. She wrote me a poem. I copied it in my mind,. And pasted it in my heart. I should have read. The subliminal irony in it. And not the surface words. That left me love diabetic. She wrote me a poem. And i kept it in my heart. Took to heart the words. The meaning my mind could fathom. If they could be reversed. I will not read again. She wrote me a poem. Painted my life with a colour so bright. I lost my sight. Mabye it was the night. Or with her i lost all my might.

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www.scribbledn.blogspot.com: December 2013

http://scribbledn.blogspot.com/2013_12_01_archive.html

Tuesday, 10 December 2013. WINNIE MADIKIZELA-MANDELA – MOTHER OF AFRICA. Sweet songs often tell stories of sorrow,. Of love lost, of trials, of Golgotha, of tyranny’s arrow;. In clime clement and kind every hand is valuable,. But it’s tempest that nominates the invaluable. As Nile’s turgid waters let history’s tenor overflow its banks. For those mothers – of which Winnie is first – that guided our steps. Thro’ the slippery stairs of Mount Oppression. Until we stood on the rooftop of liberation. And chant...

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www.scribbledn.blogspot.com: October 2014

http://scribbledn.blogspot.com/2014_10_01_archive.html

Saturday, 4 October 2014. Write me our story. And continue with the story of my life. Remember, memories are on replay. It’s a default setting. Leave behind the smiles that you didn’t cause. Or the laughter you didn’t induce. Those are the pages when the pen was not in your hand. Write us like this:. Start from the moment you kissed me. And narrate the passion that was in our hearts. And this mutual feeling we hope to hold long enough. When the only pain we would want to feel. Is death as it parts us.

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www.scribbledn.blogspot.com: HELP ME!

http://scribbledn.blogspot.com/2015/05/help-me.html

Sunday, 17 May 2015. Revolted and disturbed at what i have converted into. You either too smart or too dumb to find God. This time i think i have gone a little too far beyond ungodliness. I think i have crossed some sort of indiscernible line. I think i have entered into a precinct where to me your name is as petite as a grain. Where your absence means liberation. I've sunken too deep into the conducts of the world. Each day i carry this tormenting pain. I hope you are not humiliated. But here i am.

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www.scribbledn.blogspot.com: March 2014

http://scribbledn.blogspot.com/2014_03_01_archive.html

Sunday, 16 March 2014. I DID IT ALL FOR YOU. What is it that I didn’t do for you. Didn’t I give respect and honor. Wasn’t I like the women of old. Who adorned themselves not in braided hair or jewelery. But I adorned myself with a quiet and gentle spirit. It was not of love being blind. It was not stupidity that I endured it all. Never my fault that I was naïve. I possessed hope that you would change. I carried thy weaknesses in pure love. But in response you took my heart. That I also needed to be loved.

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www.scribbledn.blogspot.com: September 2013

http://scribbledn.blogspot.com/2013_09_01_archive.html

Monday, 16 September 2013. Umhlaba uyahlaba (The world is a pain-filled place). To all the people of my generation. And helping raise nieces and nephews. And other little ones. Please tell the children the truth. Love them. Protect them. But please don’t end your lectures at,. 8220;Listen to me:. You’ll work hard and pray everyday. And get married and live happily ever after.”. Life is hard. Even for the ‘regular do-gooders.’. Life brings the unexpected. It’s full of surprises. Some of them unpleasant.

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www.scribbledn.blogspot.com: May 2015

http://scribbledn.blogspot.com/2015_05_01_archive.html

Sunday, 17 May 2015. Revolted and disturbed at what i have converted into. You either too smart or too dumb to find God. This time i think i have gone a little too far beyond ungodliness. I think i have crossed some sort of indiscernible line. I think i have entered into a precinct where to me your name is as petite as a grain. Where your absence means liberation. I've sunken too deep into the conducts of the world. Each day i carry this tormenting pain. I hope you are not humiliated. But here i am.

scribbledn.blogspot.com scribbledn.blogspot.com

www.scribbledn.blogspot.com: ‪#‎Note to him...

http://scribbledn.blogspot.com/2015/04/note-to-him.html

Thursday, 30 April 2015. 8234;#‎Note to him. I know I’m not your type. Not that girl.with wide hips and hugging jeans. I’m just the girl with wide eyes hugging my journal. Reciting my thoughts to blue black inkblots on a white canvas. I know I’m not your type. You know the kind with catwalk confidence and charisma. I’m just the girl walking silently as the cat. Hoping to escape the crowd's gaze. So I can confidently tuck my thoughts in between these pages before my mind walls rise. Back to the truth.

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www.scribbledn.blogspot.com: February 2015

http://scribbledn.blogspot.com/2015_02_01_archive.html

Saturday, 14 February 2015. She say she's every woman and more. Worth a dozen roses but is she the woman for me. Baby I hold you close,. I take an oath. Honey drip on your lip. Till you feel like heaven coming. Though I haven't seen you lately,. Only broken voices on your phone when I call. Baby, I miss you greatly. He tastes of the mysteries of manliness. His promise of heaven hard to ignore. The hunger in his deep dark brown eyes. The heat of him as he embraces me. Clouding my every instinct. Friends o...

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www.scribbledn.blogspot.com: LOVE CRIED

http://scribbledn.blogspot.com/2015/04/love-cried.html

Wednesday, 29 April 2015. I heard your heat beat. Against the walls of your chest,. Pleading to be let out. I held you in your hurting. And our hearts entwined. As yours cried love into your veins. I have never seen love cry,. But I heard your heart wail. It's voice was pierced with sorrow,. Silent sobs racked the inside of your chest cavity. Behind a cage of composure. And face of stone. By Esnala Lahru Banda (Zambia). Photocredits: www.google.com. Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom). Friends of the blog.

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Wednesday, January 31, 2018. MY DAUGHTER BY ALBERT NYATHI. When I demand that you. Be home before dark everyday. I, my daughter, do not hate you dear. I am merely trying to protect you. From the claws of tigers that love to feast in the. From the punting leopards. Almost ready to leap at you. I am merely trying to protect you. From hungry lions silently eying you. Ready to pounce on you. From the jumpy jumpy monkeys that move. From tree to tree. From branch to branch. Without any particular base. Bhekumu...

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