Sicelo Sithole

Rookie (09 April 1986 / Durban, South Africa)

Sicelo Sithole Poems

1. Fresh Flowers On A Dead Dry Boat 1/19/2009
2. Half Around The World 1/19/2009
3. The Old Wind 1/19/2009
4. At The Face Of Nature’s Law 1/19/2009
5. The Black Box 1/19/2009
6. The White Box 1/19/2009
7. Some Campus ‘poets’ 1/19/2009
8. Summer Days At Hammarsdale 1/19/2009
9. I Am Drinking Free 1/19/2009
10. Words For You 1/19/2009
11. Into The History That Rains Your Tears 1/19/2009
12. I Cry 1/19/2009
13. With You Forever 1/19/2009
14. They Are All Gone 1/19/2009
15. Back To My Senses 1/19/2009
16. Homeless 1/19/2009
17. The Art I Could Not Fake 1/19/2009
18. Voices Calling From A Dead Valley 1/19/2009
19. From The Quiet Graveyard 1/19/2009
20. Words From A Dead Leaf 1/19/2009
21. The Plot 1/19/2009
22. The Fig Tree 1/19/2009
23. Around The Socket 1/19/2009
24. After The Sunset 1/19/2009
25. The Good Sheppard 1/19/2009
26. He Sang Words From A Dying Womb 1/19/2009
27. The Rivers She Crossed 1/19/2009
28. Walking In The Silence 1/19/2009
29. In This Life… 1/19/2009
30. To My Father 1/19/2009
31. To My Mother 1/19/2009
32. Few Words 1/19/2009
33. From The Seeds Of Fruit To The Thorns Of Loneliness 1/19/2009
34. The African Reason 1/19/2009
35. Shades Of A Lifetime-My Lifetime 1/19/2009
36. March 1987 1/19/2009
37. The Death Of Kings And Queens We All Knew 1/19/2009
38. Lessons From My Farther 1/19/2009
39. In My Memory 1/19/2009
40. Letters 1/19/2009
Best Poem of Sicelo Sithole


Are you shining because you rime with the word star?
Or is it your beauty, hidden in the wonders of who you really are
I, myself wonder how far
They will go, to destroy your beauty written upon the blue skies
They tried before, by hiding your life in books
But God rested still in your mind and preserved your precious looks
I guess you are who you are to me, an old dream to my hands that never dies

Read the full of Africa

The White Box

In this room, I can only use words as weapons
To buy my freedom at least, so I can ‘run’ away from my summons
I cannot shout or judge here, all my misery is now paved in the art to listen
The voids from the dry valleys are calling me, recollecting all my ways of sin
This is surely a one man stand: there are no folks, not even friends at least
It is only my conscience that pulls me, pulling me away from the law: the ‘beast’

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