Scribbles

Hear her speak, Its flames of wild fire burning sweet sensations down your ears, Imbued in wisdom and traditions of our ancestors, Clothed in enchantment of the blue sky.  Of her bewitching build none competes, Not the texture of the sun’s rays or that of petals of roses, Fairly not even the phenomenal tombs of pharaohs with all their might, It is just uniquely sophisticated. Talk of her character, Beautiful and heavenly, As the display of shiny pearls which populate the skies at night, As the glow on one’s face ignited by genuine happiness. She is a splendid gem, A woman of Africa, Of beauty kneaded from black earth A woman to adore!. Gerry Sikazwe Model: Angelina Shamz Picture Credit: Lobe Musonda

                                                          br.pinterest.com/explore/turbantes-africanos-946853069773/ The thought of losing you to another, The thought of giving you up to the next in line, That I cannot stand, That blow I cannot survive, So I want you badly. You and what you make me feel, Your beauty and that accompanying wit, Is the only sense this world makes, Is the only truth there is of what “alive” really is, So I want you badly. I need you like breath, you are my breath, I need you like trees do roots; you are my footing, Nothing fills my life with color like you do, Nothing paints my life this bright as you, So I want you badly. You and what you make me feel, Your beauty and that accompanying wit, Is the only sense this world makes, Is the only truth there is of wha...

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...

There is a song that warms me There is a rhythm that tickles me. There is a poem that romances me, There is a portrait that is enslaving to me. There is a star that winks at me, only at me it seems, There is a breeze that serenades seductively to me, only to me it seems. Gerry Sikazwe Picture By: Vantage Point Model: Angelina Shamz

 Love is for the weak,  And wine for the strong.  I'm a valiant knighted warrior,  One who has no nature of frailty,  But what shall I be?  But what shall I do?  Now, that my heart a lass has plucked,  Now that she holds it deep in her hands.  Must I drink wine and so lose thoughts of her into tots?  Or must I just fall in love and weak forever be?  Love is for the weak,  But wine is for the strong. Gerald Sikazwe

Regret has long fingers cold, Which wrap around faces, To blind eyes sharp, To numb sight to reality. Regret is an aged widow, With husband long dead; After young men's hearts to pluck out, After breath of young men to snatch. Regret has claws, long and sharp, For inscribing fear into minds, Blocking sanity from giving its shine, Blocking hope on wings of winds from coming. Regret is a beastly creature, With eyes red, mad, and fangs tall, If let to linger, ruin it inflicts, If let to be reasoned with, death is inevitable. Gerry Sikazwe

Memories unwanted, Locked up behind steel gates, Memories scary, Enclosed, hidden inside a jar of stone. Tales crippled, Stuck on wheelchairs, Tales banished, Amidst others to walk. Fires hungry, Put to rest under water, Fires fuming, Poisoned with sleep in dark beds they lay. Secrets sleeping, Keep on dreaming soundly asleep, Secrets buried, There in your graves grey and never awaken. Gerald 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

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

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...

If stars ever bloomed, Would their flowers be fair and bright as the face of this moment? If winds did one day sing beautifully, Would their songs express accurately the feelings felt in this moment? If magic had the ability to write a different fate, Would it style a spell, for transforming into eternity this moment? For no bang or whisper, No thrill or spill, can beat this time’s rare sweetness; A time when broken dreams are pieced together, from head to sole ever to walk tall, A time in which fierce fear is vanquished; melting its cold manipulative grip, A time of peace, serene than that of crawling water, of love than that spoken of by poetic lines. A time worth pausing, A time worth caging, A time worth being in, right next to you.