A Crying Crumbly World by Ndaba Sibanda Deadly droughts drained And bubbled because of A brutal blaze of heatwaves Let loose were heatwaves That made the world fierier Than at any time in noted history Seas acidifying, species on the brink Of death, the earth barked a bitter welcome To an unwelcoming upheaval of heat and hell
Original Music:
For My Brother by Craig Brenner, from album Passages
We Are Not An Error But The Idioms Of Our Era by Ndaba Sibanda We are the idioms of our time, a huge cabinet We belong together, to this earth, this planet Why do we thrive in muddle and destruction? Walk in the ravines of unease and corruption? Like words whose meanings cannot be found From the literal or dictionaries that are sound Let us be the proverbs: our lives are short Let no hate thrive or live or receive support Lessons on climate change need to be inferred From wise sayings, actions or so advised a nerd
Reminiscent Of Oz by Deborah Petersen What is this behind the curtain of our lives? Today, I transcend in a mindful expectant alertness open for clarity and necessary coincidences. Is it Synchronicity you crossed my path this moment? Is it the truth of this moment shared that creates us, guides our next steps, expands our breath? I enter into this day fully alert and ready no longer fearful of what is behind the curtain.
When I Was A Prevented Predator by Ndaba Sibanda A body divided into two distinct parts, The column, right behind the head, it sits; The head houses the eyes, antennae and mouthparts, The first part is the first body ring in a body with lots of rings, The second part, the trunk, consists of several body rings; I spotted her wriggling around with her four body rings, The male had deposited a sperm packet on the ground, The female millipede just picked it up and said: what a find! I moved closer, she veiled a chemical that made me unsound!
Still Craving And Crawling by Ndaba Sibanda Still going strong like a classic song. Perchance he was not old but gold. For gold never rusts or corrodes. He looked like a 70 year old chap yet he was not a septuagenarian. If you thought he was between 80 and 89, he would tell you straight, “Try again, I`m not an octogenarian.” Perhaps you would say, ok, in the 90–99 range, but still he would laugh louder, “Good try, but I’m not a nonagenarian!” A sweaty, shaking, swerving, gasping, gushing & grateful centenarian on a lively ladder – was questioned what the hell he was doing up there and he responded with a sly smile: craving higher planes of needs.
Original Music:
Looking for a Job by Craig Brenner, from album Passages
When The Sky Turned Red by Ndaba Sibanda It ignited anxiety and alarm (https://atlclinicalworkshop.com/where-to-buy-xanax/). The sky turned into a red ether as torrents and torrents of lava gushed from Mount Nyuragongo. As if it had been waiting for darkness to creep in, lava spilled, spiraled and shattered people`s precious possessions. The volcano eruption left a trail of devastation and distress as homes were damaged, lives lost. In the wake of the adversity, the evacuees wondered about the whereabouts of their kids, relatives and friends. As luck would have it, some reunited with their loved ones. The displaced victims needed shelter, water and basic food, not forgetting sanitation amenities and information and news.
Love Is Lovelier Than Luxury by Ndaba Sibanda His heart has taught Africa and the world that love is lovelier than indulgence or gold. One who would rather give money to charity than live a lavish lifestyle. Incredible maturity. He made a substantial donation to help build a school in his home village. He’s kind and skilled. He once gifted 300 Liverpool shirts to his home village. He donated $693,000 to fund a hospital. What a privilege. A rare, young philanthropist, a God-sent football megastar. Sadio Mane is an extraordinarily modest African superstar.
Cracks Appear by Alys Caviness-Gober This year, Summer’s haze hangs so heavy, its breath is slow and thick; the overhead fan stirs down desolate damp air into my stifled lungs. I lounge, hoping for a little sleep within our screened porch, eyes closed against tomorrow. Evening’s melody of birdsongs merge into the mechanical beat of air conditioners wafting on humid waves, and my right foot sways slightly as if hesitantly keeping time, to the beat of this different drumming as it becomes my heart’s beat, then slowly barely breathing eventually I sleep, just a little. This day that I didn’t want begins mercilessly; I drift back slow and thick, as the rising dawn signals this day’s melody of birdsongs, this unavoidable day, and I surrender to it and cracks appear in a haze of memories that hang so heavy like the air and despite the desolate damp tears seeping slowly from my still closed eyes, I can feel my heartbeat and it is your heartbeat and I melt unflinchingly into this day’s embrace.
Ain’t It Grand? by Alys Caviness-Gober Yesterday, thick summer rain fell hard and fast and straight down, slicing through July’s humid air like that hot knife through butter, as thunder rolled overhead in waves of booming cracks, like the sky split open, and then rhythmic aftershocks rumbled above my roof, and rain, like machetes descending, wild and so sharp and sudden, mushing down my beleaguered roses, crushed underfoot as if by some invisible giant striding past and fast towards some other battle, slicing sickly branches from my trees, anticipating destruction and victory, and I thought, ain’t it grand? just because I’m still here. (Poetry Society of Indiana Annual Poetry Contest 2020, PSI Grand Prize Category: Honorable Mention winner)
