Scribbles

Life sits still in its ship, And only when storms beat, Does disfigured its shape get, Life sits still, always, in its ship. Inside the ship's belly, life is confined, Detached from earthly toil and tears, Starved of earth's leisures and joys, Inside the ship's belly, growing, life is confined. Life sits still in its ship, Inside the ships belly, life is confined. Gerry Sikazwe

                Look at the images current winds paint, They are images of crippled dreams, Pictures of broken wishes, Paintings of a lifeless future; They are drawings which bid us to prepare our young for the fast arriving hostile times, To teach them all of secrets to longevity, To ready them for the quick coming dark days.                                For Earth is getting old, soon it will lack life, Its shadow is slowly like fog clearing away, Its soul is steadily making entrance to lands that exist below and beyond, Look, discern the time; it is now to fly away, far, For Earth is a burning candle, soon it will be there not. Gerry Sikazwe

These are cries of hearts crushed in pain, They are words of voices slain, Of faces that no longer resemble their original forms, A people, eternities ago, sold to anguish and despair. These are paintings colored by broken brushes, They are faint shadows of lost dreams misfortune daily lashes, Mere tales of brokenness, completely pitiful, Of a people, long ago, given away to agony and fearsome gloom. These are whispers of stitched smiles unheard They are sketched signs of crippled wishes unread, Ignored, About a people, such as us, years ago, offered to oppression. Gerry Sikazwe

While the night draws near, A hand of a painter is seen unclear, He paints the skies black, And creatively places glittering Fireflies there, He plants each fearfully, causing darkness to mute. This painter then sprinkles wet air, But even then his painting is not fair, So with a creators touch, he suspends in the sky a whitish-grey ball; Which in turn welcomes all beings in daylight rare, Thus his piece is completed, and finally exposed to all on earth. Gerry Sikazwe

In late nights, Bats, crickets whistle sweet tunes, In the presence of celestial lights, They all serenade their earthly tunes. While at sun ris'n, Other creatures orchestrate their songs, For no better reason, These present to Nature songs. Thunder in turn Beats its heavenly melodious drum; To announce to the earth, it’s time for rain, For Nature to grow green, to grow plump. Flowing streams, gashing waterfalls, Groans of pets, cries of the wild, This music, Nature attentively hears, These songs gift Nature with warmth, as does a smiling child. Gerry Sikazwe

I dreamed I stood in a studio And watched two sculptors there The clay used was a young child's mind And they fashioned it with care One was a teacher -the tools he used Were books, music and art. The other, a parent, worked with a guiding hand. And a gentle, loving heart. Day after day, the teacher toiled with touch That was deft and sure. While the parent laboured by his side And polished and smoothed it o'er And when at last their task was done. They were proud of what they had wrought. For the things they had moulded into the child Could neither be sold nor bought And each agreed they would have failed If each had worked alone For behind the teacher stood the school And behind the parent the home Author Unknown

Life is a dry sponge, very thirsty for water, So when we sleep, we do so to soak her, We lie with eyes closed from the happenings of this world, That maybe pleasant scenes we would mold. We can't see any hope with our eyes open, So now we close them, endeavoring a beautiful future to envision, Reality is too thorny, our souls ever bleed, Our hearts cry tearfully each day for comfort, our only need. Most say we are merely lazy, afraid of what exists, Others claim our souls are of frightened slaves, with unsharpened fists, But truth is we are broken, we are tired of being spank by the cold, We crave so much for strength, the Sun's shine to forever behold. So next time you see me smiling asleep, Dare not draw me out of the deep, Because then in there I will be painting sweet and kind memories, Memories of relieving peace, the only comfort there is. Gerry Sikazwe

Listen to the trees as they sway in the wind, Their leaves are telling secrets, Their bark sings songs of olden days as it grows around the trunks, And their roots give names to all things, Their language has been lost, but not the gestures. Mpanji Siame

 Lay me down in pastures green,  Before the Sun with utter madness burns,  And all grass to brown dry.  Set me under the shade; beneath the leafy tree,  Before all its leaves,  Scorched to the ground fall.  Let my soul wallow in mud,  Playfully, interacting with wet earth,  Because soon, only dust remains of life. Gerry Sikazwe

 If the sky was a blanket,  Then it could be one held invisibly,   Fastened tightly in midair,  And Earth would be the bed,   On which witty dreamers lay,  Dancing with beautiful shadows,  Pacing to and fro the ends of the world,  In close stance shaking,   Wriggling their wine-bottled waists,  To tunes of old, tunes of ancient Egypt,  To rhythms of first day Africa,   Before music was molested and lost its purity,  To Gypsy melodies,   When music still had its head proudly swung,   Left and right with no reservations.  If the sky was a blanket,  And Earth, the bed on which dreamers slept,  Life would certainly be a massive dream dreamt by all,  It would be nothing existent,  But merely a masterpiece,   A Mona Lisa of sleeping minds,  Just a beautiful thought. Gerry Sikazwe

I am not my own, For I had nothing to do with my existence, I was merely a thought mercifully conceived in the creator’s mind. I am not my own, For I did not design nor decide what skin dark or bright to permanently wear, I was clothed in black earth following the potter’s careful image. I am not my own, I am nature’s because I swing on icy strings tied around its hands, I am my land’s as my existence is the extension of its love, Not my own, never my own. Gerry Sikazwe

Inspiration by Nomatama Wamundila  Home is a cave wherein resides genuine merriment and happiness,  Home is a haven of bright smiles and warm laughter.  A home can be a four walled room in which six people make space for each other warmly,  It can be a mud plastered hut thatched with grass, in which a bond than glue holds hearts closely.  A home might still be a well-built Victorian mansion,  With beauty as of butterflies sewn into its skin,  With chandeliers hung glittering like twinkling stars in a clear night,  And with floors smooth and clear like mirrors, that if you look so long you can almost see the reflection of your own soul.  But a home is the same however,  As it is just pasture on the riverside, on which we lay our weary bones and sore flesh,  It is a shade below a tree, under which we sit looking to the sky so that energy we invigorate and our spirits we rest.  Home is a cave, ...

                   Light up the path of a lone hunter in the dark forest, Brighten the dull cold dreams of an infant girl. Let the night glow, brightened with stories of sleeping old heroes. Warmth of our sleeping fathers, Bring out from within us the good that accompanied generations of our fathers, Burn in our hearts, burn in our souls, Keep us awake, keep us alive. Gerry Sikazwe

Inspiration: Angelina Shamz                   E very morning, before work you awake A nd sweating your mind and body you make T ake a bite, warm your belly with food. E at something or weak you will grow, A capsule of poison mind you, each time a meal is missed, you swallow, T herefore, I plead you eat daily. A fter your day is done, before dreams you summon, N ever a meal refuse, for you might of hunger sleep on, D ead, coldly, from lack of food. E at to be well; to be beautiful and smart, A meal surely does make you whole, fair and bright, T herefore, I plead with you, eat daily. Gerry Sikazwe

There is a beautiful girl that smiles for me, I do not know her very well, I do not think she knows me that well either, But still this girl smiles at me. Her smile is sincere, just like the Sun's warmth, Her eyes as piercing as stares of stars in a clear night, She smiles for me without restrain, And she smiles at me with the warmest of smiles. This beautiful girl smiles at me, With a smile that is rare, priceless, This beautiful girl smiles for me, With a smile that causes my heart to uncontrollably leap. Should I tell her I have fallen for her? Should I confess that her smile has bewitched me? Beautiful girl, has got to be mine, Beautiful girl that smiles at me, what will it cost to make her mine? Gerry Sikazwe Picture By: Vantage Point Model: Angelina Shamz

Care for me when old I become,  Tend for me when my bones weaken,  For I have toiled the earth all my life for you.  I'm an aged Monkey now;  Whose survival begs on you,  So be mine sight, now that my eyes slacken,  Walk for me, now that logs my legs I've become. Gerry Sikazwe

Before you came, And your voice with my ears shared, Before you came, And your hands my heart lay claim of, I doubted life was capable of such charm as you. Before you came, And your smile warmed my soul, Before you came, And your heart taught me love, I thought love was just in tales, in poems. Before you came, And your mind’s beauty displayed, Before you came, And your wisdom, inscribed in my ways, I threw right over wrong, folly tasted sweeter. Before you came, And my sight sharpened, Before you came, And my thoughts elevated, I was going to forfeit you, alas you chose me! Gerry Sikazwe

Beholding your face, I hope in my arms you grow, To flourish in them, And become a flower soft, With beauty of the blue sky. Gerry Sikazwe

Hold fast to dreams For if dreams die Life is a broken-winged bird That cannot fly. Hold fast to dreams For when dreams go Life is a barren field Frozen with snow. Langston Hughes

How neatly my wife sleeps, I should like to sleep like her. She must be dreaming of me, I must long to see her dreams; Her breathe so smooth, Her turnings so soft, She must be using hydraulics, For her to turn without struggles. Her lips once again so tempting, But I do not want to disturb her, In her dreams she Takes care of all our dreams; She solves our day long problems. Through her eye lids I long to read all her eyes, And join her in her dreams. Moffat Mbuzi (Zambian)

P ART  O NE   The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.    The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.    The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,    And the highwayman came riding—           Riding—riding—  The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.  He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,    A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin.  They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh.    And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,           His pistol butts a-twinkle,  His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.  Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard.  He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all...