Scribbles

                                                                Pictures: Google  Little birds sing,  Old negro spirituals.  Around the harbour,  These tunes they echo;  To cement the hearts,  To dry seas in eyes,  Of men,  women,  To brew liquor of hate,  In boys and girls growing.  Little birds echo tunes,  Before our strong brothers,  Before our pride, virgin sisters,  Before our fathers and mothers,  Are dragged by their necks;  As we do bulls when they plough,  Smitten like we treat thieves of corn,  Dragged as our cows for slaughter,  Into a mammoth ark, ark to slavery.  Little birds cry,  They shed tears with us,  Their hearts like ours,  In great a...

Winds may manage to erase our prints off the belly of the earth, Smiles we lit on faces of people may go off, Life may even pretend to have not birthed us, Dreams we molded to create better futures may be treated as trash, Then, when death has had devoured our lives. But now is the time, Now is the time to inscribe our names, Deep in the skin of the sky, Tattooing them so thickly that stars should envy, So that even when we pass, Those alive then may know that we too were here. Time and seasons will soon forget us, Even flowers in our gardens without us will go on, Friends and acquaintances we made alone will leave us to sleep, Gold and silver in our youth we picked will have new masters, Then, when death has had harvested our lives. But now is the time, Now is the time to inscribe our names, Deep in the skin of the sky, Tattooing them so thickly that stars should envy, So that even when we pass, Those alive then may know that we too...

We do not abound in strength, We cannot boast to have muscles of Hercules, We are not gifted with terrifying physical build, But we order about the strong. We do not have confident voices as of Luther, We do not have words of Eisenhower, We surely cannot speak like Churchill, But we run the very world which their speeches once steered. We do not have fair looks, We are not with eyes that twinkle or glow, We do not have charm in our dress either, But we have beautiful minds, and that makes all the difference. We are creators, we are designers, We are nerds, with minds that see beyond this time, We are thinkers, we are dreamers, We are philosophers, with eyes that see beyond this time. Gerry Sikazwe Picture From: Google

She is fearless, holds life by its neck, She is brave, with breath of volcanoes, She is schooled in modernity, unschooled of slaving traditions, She is just a bird free, freely soaring above male-chauvinism. She is a girl in boots. She is cunning, conforms the world to her standards, She is bright witted, outsmarts women-degrading testaments, She is judge and jury, never waits to be slapped, She is as swift as wind, that whistles her own triumphs unapologetically, She is a girl in boots. She is breath-takingly fair; roses do envy her skin, She is fearfully sculptured, a carving no sane eye would resist, She has no take in mediocrity, sophistication is her tune, She is a beauty; one that stars, as if poisoned with folly, uncontrollably stare, She is a girl in boots. She is purposeful, a key brush in the painting of the future, She is a hard-worker, and the survival of the world rests on her shoulders, She is not one to keep quiet, when movi...

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

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

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 Lines

Let us dance to the beating of our hearts, Let us hold hands under the smiling sky, Let us cage our dreams as we have our shadows. For we are masters, masters with whips, On horses in our minds, let us ride, from earth to the lonesome sky, We are to bury our sorrows in burning,  sand Exposing our bold strength to the unknown we often fear, To live unhaunted, to live freely.