Sing, Black Child

Soul

My soul lives

in the branches

of the old Baobab tree

that nourishes itself

in the drought.

Drinking life from 

blood, blood of 

the Forgotten.

My soul rests at

the setting of the African sun

and bays at the moon,

purging evil into the night

that births hopes in stars.

My soul dances

on the shards 

of heartbreak

that cut the tendons 

of cowards.

My soul breathes 

because it must.

Because it chooses

not to sink

into the ground, 

but Rise

like a flower that

blooms in the desert;

Rebelliously.

Sing, Black Child

I watched a black child sing,

Her small lungs filled with air

As she belted words of song

From the depths of her heart;

Sono sethu bubumnyama

(Our sin is being black)

She sang with an open abandonment,

The wind her audience

And her bones shaking with passion

It was the most beautiful

Heartbreaking vision.

Black people are born 

With song in their bodies

Before we talk we hum,

And once language touches

Our lips – often a foreign one,

Barging in uninvited 

Yet unrelenting – 

We sing, songs of liberation

And freedom

Black people are born with

Spells and incantations

That remind us that even though

A piece of paper says we are free

We are never free as long

As they keep...

The Hangover Poem

Hangovers are the worst

Pounding headaches punctuated by flashes

Of what you wish you hadn't done

Are reminders that youthful vigour cannot always escape shame

But I regret nothing

In that blur of flashing memories, I remember

I remember cars pulled off and boots opened

In a vibrant, obnoxious celebration of youth

With music cascading over dancing bodies

In a magical display of life

I remember friends wishing for new beginnings in the presence of a bitter end

And for the briefest of moments,

Our pasts collided with the future in

A kaleidoscope of life affirming beauty

I remember how easy it was to sink back

Into habit at a single touch

A Man

A man on my street

The Prayer

I prayed last night