How To Make A Child Poem by Chanda Chongo

Loving a woman fom head to toe

and stripping the night's linen sheet

off the skin of earth

don't mean you know how to make a child.


Burrying your head

in your woman's cleavage

and finding warmth in her bossom,

don't mean you know how to make a child,

neither paying homage to her holy body

and thatching honey on her cherry lips

don't mean you know how to make a child.


When your burning lust

is lured into your woman's luscious taste

belched from the inner walls of her daunting legs,

dare not to lick crystals of salt on her neck

nor swipe your tongue on her melting steak

'cause drowning your sensory nerves

into a thick stitched orgasm

don't mean you know how to make a child.


Zygots are born from a man's world

and raised in a woman's womb.

a foestus exists as a foetus

until it budds into a moulded child

who then dares to point his gaze

at the angry sun;

Dare not to let his eyes

catch a glimpse of the nakedness of this world.

Dare not to let his tongue

utter crippled words into the ears of the universe

for he will crumble the petunia of its zest.

Teach his hands how to scribble peace

in the palms of the earth.

Teach his limbs how to get back home

when eyes cease to see the right path,

for this is the only way how to make a child.