UBUNTU

I've known civilizations old and new
non upon the amity of foes was built -
nor thriving nations sealed by graft.
Gaze east , gaze west - Africa beloved
now to thine own self , strike a pose !
Your fecund womb of earthen grace,
plenteous of meed and priceless gems ,
inflates as yet the chests of alien beasts
from the realms of whom to us accursed
greed , and the wiles of drunken crabs .
yet if onto heritage, recast our faith
wringing Ubuntu from crusted hearts
ancestral hosts our cries would heed -
Africa alas !  will thrive anew.

By

Hope Kalé Ewusi ©

WIKIPEDIA
Ubuntu (/ʊˈbuːntʊ/ uu-boon-tuu; Zulu pronunciation: [ùɓúntʼú])^[1][2] is a Nguni Bantu term roughly translating to "human kindness."^{[dubious – discuss]} It is an idea from the Southern African region which means literally "human-ness", and is often translated as "humanity towards others", but is often used in a more philosophical sense to mean "the belief in a universal bond of sharing that connects all humanity"

Youth

Time and stage of the unfolding
Spliced between cradle and crypt
Erratic , capricious - raw:
Youth is but a raging bull
A hurricane unyoked !

Brutish though benign its course
passion anoints each act or did .
And  exuberance as such
that knows no bounds,
tallies restraint to the faint of heart.


Roll the dice and feed your vices
you lads and lasses of the tide.
Set loose your ships , ply wild and free
amidst life's gales and rocky crops;
and if such insouciance grants you lease
let tattered sails and broken rudders
your youthful  trophies be .


Not so for the keen and prudent lot
who plow their time in tidy rows
sowing dreams where thorn bushes
once thrived, in their primal hours being.
And if such diligence , a lease would grant
let glory by the bushels their youthful
barns soon  reap.

By

Hope Kalé Ewusi ©

Poetry

Not haughty thoughts
that confounds the muse
nor ego trips
for the inspired plume:



It's the weeping willow
shedding the blues.....
milk of the honey comb
for a tortured soul.

I'ts a hard shelled nut
with tasty meed
that must be cracked
to get the meat.

That's what poetry
means to me.

By

Hope Kalé Ewusi ©

A Bag Of Tricks

For his fans he puts on a show
in return, they cheer each blow

A wrestler's mind is a bag of tricks
a cache of moves - stolen or inspired
by wiles of beasts that stalk and strike
and recoil, like smoke from a smothered fire .



His hands are like an angry vice -
that clutches a foe like the jaws of death
and swirls  him once, twice or thrice....
until his soul rebukes the heart that dared.

Not known for brains but brawn -
the wrestler shuns the library door
you'd catch him often in a brawl
astride his foe upon the floor.

By

Hope Kalé Ewusi ©

Beneath Rain Clouds

There used to be  roads
where  mudflats have claimed
this is what my father said :
that flowers of paradise
roamed beyond the crooked bend.
And those roads that used to be
were the very gift of Babylon.
now look around, all is gone -
shattered by fireballs  from a jealous sky.

Reflection bears roses of the it's kind
thus youthful desires I surmise
don't ride upon a camel's back -
they roam the skies on eagles' breasts .
Let the beard fall off the faces that cursed the wind
and burdened my kite with the penguin's fate.

If I were blind, may be I'd be free
just me and my song, we'd chase
the wind to where the spirit bird roams
but these eyes of mine have betrayed me.
they see things that are no longer there.
This vastness between hope and dreams
my fledgling soles may confound ,
but  a summoned will knows no bounds
an exiting moment still awaits.

By

Hope Kalé Ewusi ©

Why Is Burundi Dripping Red ?

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Questions hemmed on bewildered lips
inquire in tones hushed up by dread
why is Burundi dripping red ?
and why do hatchets like raging
 windmills swing high and low-
raping, gauging - maiming the earth
while laughing vultures , hail the morbid dawn ?

look at your corn fields
up in flames - and if a blessing
this may count, porcupines
by their dozens flee the scourge !
what  easy pickings could there be
even to feuding kinsmen in the fray
alas, no stew for their kindred fold
While clansmen hacked each other cold !

Did the hornbill from Rwanda
not sing a dirge, when he stopped
in Bujumbura to quench his thirst?
He sang of the Kigali slaughter house
where kinsmen and tribes men
killed for naught - limb for limb
the devil's mischief - trouble in
paradise, the devil's delight.
Did you read the news today?
What did the headlines say to you?
Does anyone really care about
A checkered parcel on a map?

Why is musungu washing his hands
as if to say he has no hand in this?
who wrote the code of divided and rule?
who drove a wedge between two noble tribes
who in nuptials each others hand had clutched
while feasting as one , on the slaughtered beast
long before King Leopold's men acursed the land?

And we of the sable nations ,what dupes we are -
that in this future space, we bow as yet
to the whims of the naked gun, whose bloody hue
in every guise, has wooed and courted us to grave!
When will our mothers' mournful drips run dry
and let the sunlight  in their eyes shine bright?
Alas ! The mirror has spoken an awful truth -
that the enemy indeed may lie within.
Woe then to the puppets that run the show -
shameless iscariots -
whose greed abates their rectitude.

Hope Kalé Ewusi ©

Subtle Vices

“Shades of signification”

Paint a picture of me…

With the brush strokes

Of your imagination;

Honor Picasso-

Warhol – Monet…..

And other genies of

Your hallowed brood:

Collate….distort-

Morph my contours

To suit the wiles

Of the gilded fold.

Take liberties….brand me

Codify…….signify,

While I hold my pose.

But don’t ask me who I am

Or where the hell I was born…

Let the shades of your motivation

Fill in the ---------- BLANKS.

 Hope Kalé Ewusi ©

Love's Pickets

Oh for such titillation

And sensual bliss-

Love’s elixir enlivening the

Hearts of amorous beings.

With arms entwined and curves

Aligned in serpentine pose…

Magic unfolds with rhythmic flair.

‘Tis of this, that the poets rave

That where love’s pickets

Bind two hearts and flames alight

As from a homely hearth-

Songs of the lyre thrills the air.

But when love is spent….

Rancid and stale, it burns

With the sting of aged brine;

So take heed you feuding birds

And bid not one another gloom.

By

Hope Kalé  Ewusi ©

When Wood Fire Burns

When a wood fire burns
beneath the open sky,
be it at noon or dusky sun
it sparks a warmth that melts our sighs
and kindles the wanderlust  of butterflies.

Gone with the smoke are ghostly cares
that once chased slumber from the den;
and if only for a moment this aspect flares
or tarries a hitch , like a nesting wren
its always like carnival, when a wood fire burns.

By

Hope Kalé Ewusi ©