Kondwani Simwaba Poems

COVID19
See no one knew where it all came from or how it all started,
No one knew what to do about it or to what extent it would go;
No one knew what it was;
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My Queen
I met her somewhere in the stars, between the constellations of Aries and Orion's Bow; beaming with exuberance, her smile, quite like the Crescent moon in Winter's fall; Glistening with radiance, her eyes, glittering vehemently at Summer's light pour; her heart, warmer than summer yet she remained composed her poise, cooler than ice in Winter's snow; her voice, so Angelic you'd think the heavenly choir sung at her utterance of any words; her body shaped beautifully,a galaxy of enamour she belonged in the heavens because her celestial demeanor was as inexplicable as the science of the big bang theory; but she attracted me like the Bermuda triangle and 'tis for this gravitational pull that I fell for her and she became the order to my chaos, My Queen...
#RhapsodyArts
#QueenTMC*
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Dusting Dreams off my shelf
I've been thinking! Pensively about hanging up this mic; breaking the stem of my pen, so it could bleed ink one last time as I lose the ball at its nib just so it cannot point on pages anymore.
I've been thinking! Contemplating about my imminent divorce from the Arts; you see my first love and I haven't really been on speaking terms ergo our marriage has broken down irretrievably, guess I gotta go.
I've been thinking! Brooding over my Anhedonia; see I find myself at a stage in life where stages act like cages, restraining my wages; abashed by the little recognition I get from fellow sages.
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WHO THEN, SHOULD DEFINE LOVE?
Almost everyone can define love based on Apostle Paul's letter to the Corinthians; but who really can say they fully fathom such a complex topic?
If I do speak for myself; then I reckon everyone is but a professional on matters of love, because love is but a proponent of time and time breeds experience and thus everyone has their own experiences.
Or could it be that which the early philosophers said to the Athenians; or that, that message still lives with us to this day except with time we've all become myopic?
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A Poem within a Poem
What happened to the voices?
The ones that spoke to me,
Those that woke me up at midnight and;
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Pissing in the Air
Fifty one years since the first case of AIDS was recorded, ARV's and a self test AIDS Kit are all we've afforded; AIDS is such a concrete subject I reckon this is a major break through, because all possible cures have been regarded as somehow untrue; all cure stories have been shutdown for fear of major corporations being shutdown; they don't want me to talk about this, just look how they made Dr. Sebi kiss the ground.
Another one bites the dust, come with iron clad evidence about an AIDS cure and watch just how it all turns to rust; alas! My peers condemned me for talking about Nipsey Hussle as if it is such a hustle that I should talk about the Cyclone Idai, why! I swear I shed tears because it is such a damn tragedy what happened to those people; but what Nip inspired in me could never be simple; that's why I gotta pay my respect. That I should have talked about Xenophobia but y'all just didn't read my poems, that's why you try to put me in a box despite my claustrophobia.
I come from a country where Democracy is such a fallacy; they don't want me to talk about this because freedom of expression is an intellectual myth and even though I would like to side with the private media, I can't because they all just preach propaganda, it's all just vanity. I mean seriously, what power has my voice when even the most influential opposition get behind bars; I can only write these bars but honestly I am allergic to prison after all, who's gonna takecare of my child when I am in prison? Whoever said family holds you down, probably meant it in an Anchor context; because nobody supports nobody, it's all just a meaningless contest.
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WHAT HAS BECOME OF US?
I never would have imagined that it could come to this; two birds of the same feathers flocking away from each other, but maybe in due season when fruit departs from tree and the sun from the day; when night falls and darkness covers the firmament; when the tree divorces the leaves and clouds are seen no more; when the poet lays down his pen and can't write anymore, because his inspiration is gone; when the artist can no longer draw any attention from his followers and the composer can't make do with his ‘heart' beat. I wonder, what then shall become of us?
It was inevitable though inexplicable, we just played dumb and it remained unspeakable. This day was coming but we both ignored the truth and comforted ourselves with that which we desired and wished for; I swear I could pen them down in art, all the things I dreamt of; all that I desired and hoped for, see! Because the same things I prayed for scratched my heart beyond bandage repair, but who am I fooling? It has been too delicate; I swear this heart has experienced more falls that the mighty Niagara itself; so to say I paid attention to this journey would be but a blatant lie, because we both know how broke I was. I just wonder, what then shall become of us?
They told me what they thought, but I rejected their counsel and when they called me fool for making ‘Tazama pipeline' dreams I just darted from them; I mean who are they to comprehend that which I feel? Who are they to question my emotions? I swear if I was a story teller, I'd tell it to my children's' children so they can understand, because as it always has been, ‘those who know not of history are doomed to repeat it! ' I know the reader wonders too, what then shall become of us?
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To catch a Scarlet Macaw
I caught a little Scarlet Macaw and I made a beautiful cage for it.
Every night when the moon would smile, I'd sit out for the show and this beautiful bird would sing a soothing serenade on repeat.
I'd toil my fingers to give it breadcrumbs galore and then I'd give it water to drink whenever I saw fit.
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Death too, is Poetic.
The ode of life is neither written in Iambic Pentameter nor any other form but blank verse, because it is not dictated by many strict poetry rules, it is but adherent only to randomness in whatever sense. Alas! Everything is Poetry; living is a never ending emotional rollercoaster of a poem and death is just Poetry in motion especially when being driven in a hearse.
I am a Lawyer but see as my side hustle I nurse wounds too, but you'll never see them because they are covered in the sheathe of my masculinity and whatever society deems right for how a man should be in pursuit of his proverbial tranquility; so these days I just weep dry tears, sob with a closed mouth, cry in silence and hold all my emotions with a clenched fist as I smile through my pain, laugh out loud despite being hurt, continue living as if blood nor tears were never shed and all this so as to protect my testosterone by hiding whatever levels of estrogens science claims I may have; say Love, my heart was broken a long time ago and many times more, ergo what I do have is a fragment of shattered glass and if you look close enough you can even see the blood circulating through my body, come now and witness the funeral of my pain, the demise of all emotions and death of all feelings because there is Poetry even is this, but see I never knew that being alive could be such an onus heavy enough to make my shoulders drag; I don't mean to brag, but am blessed with much intellect yet even so I must ask isn't knowledge some form of a hallucinogenic drug because it takes you through highs and lows and in the end knowledge itself is really just unbearable pain like letting a body repleted with so much life go by pulling off the plug.
This ode of life is neither written in Iambic Pentameter nor any other form but blank verse, because it is not dictated by many strict poetry rules, it is but adherent only to randomness in whatever sense. Alas! Everything is Poetry; living is a never ending emotional rollercoaster of a poem and death is just Poetry in motion especially when being driven in a hearse because death too, is Poetic.
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