Scribbles

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