Africa Sings

A moment
siphons dreams
from a barren woman
like puffs
of dusty air
from panting nostrils,
while low hums
betray her presence
in the thick,
and billow
like a fragrance
on the smoke of prayers
to the gods,
until her hunger
beats the skins
of the ashiko and djembe
and dances the earth,
pounding out the rhythm
that is Africa,

and Africa sings. 

Painting by me, entitled Africa

Read more poems by JMariah

Africa in me

I have been bitten by the "Africa" bug. Everywhere I go, I find stores that cater to the Africa-minded with art, music, movies. And I can't help but add another object to my collection. I've been holding back as much as I can, as I'm planning to be in Nigeria for December, but as my weak will would have it, I'm not doing so well.

This is my latest purchase.

God Is Good

This world is not a very kind place for the insecure. The evils of this world and its inhabitants constantly threaten to tear at the hearts of simple, trusting people. But God is good. He promised His children that He will not allow them to take on more than they can bear. And He always honours His promises. Thank God that He is a God of sure promises, the Healer of wounds and the Eraser or scars.

Show Me Your Eyes

The heart of the man was cunningly wicked;
His tongue was callous and cold.
The schemes he used hurt and abused,
While his eyes were the windows to his soul.

Sweet words he twisted to suit his purpose;
Each promise was bent, then broken.
Lies he construed to sound like the truth,
While his true intent went unspoken.

Love was a game for him to win,
And hearts that were blind, he stole.
His touches felt good, so she misunderstood
That his eyes were the windows to his soul.

The woman believed the tongue of the man
Who lied of such doting affection.
She hung on the smiles that he donned all the while
That his mind sought another direction.

His lips burned with kisses that teased her inside
And bade her to fall for his lies.
Her emotions he played with the future he paved,
While his lids closed over his eyes.
He refused to show her his eyes.

Crumpled Words

It’s 4 AM on Monday morning when the traffic outside my window hums to life. And somewhere in my building a toilet is flushed, and running water spills through pipes behind a wall.

I sit staring at the four clichéd lines in my notebook, that suddenly become squished inside a crumpled ball of paper thrown on my bedroom floor. I pinch my eyes tight to get hold of any reasons that might be there - reasons for the emptiness that has suddenly opened up between us, reasons for the coldness, the hunger - but find none. And still,

the lines I send out spoil the words that return -

his carefully chosen words, that drip without emotion over staggered lips and fall like pulp from his thoughts of me squeezed through cyber space. He stares blankly, as the lines he wanted to say lie squished inside a crumpled ball of paper on his bedroom floor.

Nothing Matters

hours go by,
days,
and then weeks.
and when months
blow past me
like bubble gum wrappers
and empty potato chip bags
along a dusty sidewalk,
nothing seems to matter.

and the cold, deep places
fall into colder,
deeper places,
then out of sight.

and you don’t reach
for me.
and when the memory
of the reaching
fades,
nothing matters
anymore.

Afrofest 2005

I was out at Afrofest yesterday and had a wonderful time. I found myself surrounded by African art, music and culture that thrilled me to no end.

When my friend and I first arrived, Allakomi was preforming on the main stage. Their lively enthusiasm was contagious and the beats they pounded out on their traditional African instruments was extremely electrifying.

There was an energized buzz in the air, as I stepped out of my usual shyness, and spoke to vendors and visitors as though they were all my brothers and sisters. And they were. And I watched as children and adults alike enjoyed the lively atmosphere of the day.

I ate fried plantain, dumplings (whose name I couldn't pronounce and now can't remember), and beef stew. I bought a traditional African outfit and danced to the lively beats of the music.

In my growing passion for Africa and its peoples and cultures, I had not known that so much of Africa was alive and living right here in my own city. But now that I know, nothing will be able to stop me from embracing it and making it all mine.

Sick Of Being Alone

I gulp down another forkful of loneliness
and choke on the excuses smothering it,
the way globs of ketchup
would cover clumps of unpalatable mashed potatoes.
My stomach tightens,
heaves
and threatens to throw it all back.
I gag,
then swallow.

Lies squirt my eyes
with the pungent juices
of a ripe onion,
and send the tears over my teeth
to wash down the lumps.

I burp up a memory from the past
and re-taste its teases
on the edges of my tongue,
before slowly guiding another forkful
toward the back of my throat.
Bile rises. I gag,
then swallow.

Read more poems by JMariah

The word "Love"

The word “love” has become a cliché, an over-used word who’s meaning has been reduced to a vague, trite, even laughable collection of emotions that song writers and poets pen, that teenagers aspire to attain, and that mature adults avoid mentioning for fear of being shunned by their peers. And what makes the romantic dreaming of love so commonplace, while the true and honest act of loving is so difficult to obtain? Is it that we have romanticised the once-upon-a-time and so totally swallowed the lie of the fairy-tale happy-ever-after that we’ve left the whole idea of love void of rational thinking? Is it that we are expecting to easily “fall” into love as opposed to work our way through it? And after all, is it really the ending to a story or a process of life?

Dark Cloud

Today I am alone and feeling so deeply lonely. This loneliness is so overwhelming, biting into the hours of the day with much crying and a deep depression. I am doubting that there could possibly be anyone in this whole world who would truly love me. I look at myself in the mirror and I don’t like the image I see. And more than that, I can’t believe that anyone else would either. A dark cloud moved over me last night and I’ve not been able to shake it since. I am reaching for the happiness in a love that has always been beyond my grasp, and it scares me. It scares me to think that one day I may find that this illusive love wasn’t meant to be anything but just that – a dream I was never meant to attain.

Dark Cloud

A grey mood slips
silently over my night
and hovers
menacingly
moments above me.
And suddenly,
I’m aware that I’m alone.

A deep heaviness
rises within me
and shields my mind
from reason.
Staggered breaths
break the silence
and flood my swollen eyes
with the sting of self-doubt.

Hours drag on,
‘til morning finds me choking
on the memory
of past neglects and abuses
and drowning on the tears
they’ve made.

And who’s going to love me
out of this depression today?
Who’s going to help me
end this silence
that echoes my loneliness
back to me?

No one…

Distractions! Distractions!

I have tried in vain to concentrate on the work I have brought home to do this weekend, but my mind and my desires are elsewhere. I have appeased all the subtle distractions that vied so seductively for my attention, and now that Sunday is coming to a close, I am anxious about not spending the time tackling the three piles of paperwork that I had promised to tend to.

Even now, as I try to put into words the restless fog that has captured my mind and torn from me my ability to focus, I struggle to lay it down on the page. I pace, nibble on almonds, sip on wine, peer into the fridge to find something else to occupy some time and keep my hands from being idle, and still the work doesn't get done.

And all the stresses that seem to be so tightly interwoven into a web of tiresome concerns, refuse to be pulled apart one by one for my careful analysis. And I just can't seem to function today.

I Miss My Mother

As Mother's Day approached this year, I became very sullen. After about a week, I realised that it was because I missed my mother. She was such a vibrant woman, a social butterfly, a loyal friend and generous hostess. My mother is still alive, living an empty existence without the memories of her experiences that made up who she was. Now this shell that used to house my mother is pacing a hall in a medical facility with other Alzheimer's patients. Her personality has been snatched from her, and I miss her terribly.

I wrote this poem the day before Mother's Day. I post it now.


Mother

You have forgotten
that I have come to see you,
as you walk
to the end of the hall,
and smile at old men
in wheelchairs
and toothless women
shuffling their bed slippers
on the sterile floor.
As you pass me
on your way back,
you slide a glance
over my face
with the eyes of a stranger
and smile, empty.

I still hear your voice
as you call for me
to stop climbing trees
and scaling fences.
I see your smiles
as you follow the lines
of my latest poem,
were they the handstands
and back walkovers
in my competitions.
I still watch you picking out
the choicest pieces of meat
for my plate.
I feel your laughter
that still rides
the beat of some popular tune
you dance to.

And you don’t know how fast
I hold on to the remnants
of what your mind has let go,
misplaced, erased of yourself,
as you walk to the end
of the hall.

Not Me Anymore

You have affected me.
Your words
have displaced my senses
and I can’t breathe anymore.
There’s a stirring inside me
that I don’t recognize
and I can’t sing anymore.
I’m not free anymore.

I pinch my eyes
against the tears
that burn with the breath
of a liar’s tongue.
And I don’t trust anymore.
And I watch silently
as you adjust your touch
like the dial on a thermostat,
so that when I open my legs to you,
you run cold.

See
how you have affected me?
This face isn’t mine anymore.

Can't Trust Anyone Any More

I wake up to find that trust is an unobtainable entity that breathes down the necks of the gullible, while dominating the shadows that blindfold their eyes. Sucked into their dreaming, conned into believing that man's word is worth saving, the simple clutch their hands together and grasp hold on nothing.

I blink back the tears that betrayal traces with a cunning finger over my cheeks and suck in a sigh of strength that fills my lungs with the will to press on. And I put no faith in man, for all men are liars and strive to achieve their own self-serving ends, regardless of the effects their methods have on others.

And I find all this, before I unfold my arms from across my chest and walk out into the dawn.

Read more on Trust

With My Heart

With my heart, I feel you close to me
I feel you want me desperately.
With my heart, I hear you call to me,
And I answer you with love.

With my heart, I feel you touching me,
Feel you quell my insecurities.
With my heart, I hear you comfort me;
I respond to you with love.

With my heart, I know you ache for me
Ache to passionately cover me,
Pour your hopes and dreams all over me,
And fill me with your love.

In my heart, I know assuredly
That you are mine eternally,
That when you pledged your heart to me,
You pledged it with your love.

Sipping on Spills

I’m sitting in my favourite spot on the couch, pressing my pen to a blank page, hoping that my heart will overflow its pain and allow mere words to lay it out.

My pen falls silent.

I must have woken up quickly this morning, because thoughts and feelings from last night’s dreams keep mixing with the seconds that now try to pass before me.

I can smell the well-seasoned pork chops cooking in the oven, and my stomach anticipates the savoury goodness of their succulent juices. But perhaps I shouldn’t think about succulent juices, as I have just come from church.

A sip of white wine flows over the lip of my glass and across my tongue, promising to numb the feelings I am now not willing to see spilled on this page.

Sips spill cold and dry down my throat, and my mind smiles at the affects this liquid exudes. The hour draws a blank hand across my eyes, as they close in sleep. And once again my pen remains silent.

I Hate Being Lied To

I hate being lied to, especially in matters of the heart. I hate when a man misrepresents himself. I hate when he tells me that he loves me when he knows he doesn't. And the words "I love you" were only used to mean "I want something from you, and I'm going to be smooth and slick to get it". 

A Lover's Lie

I should have seen the end of this,
Before I played my part.
I would have turned away the kiss
That took my heart.

I should have weighed more carefully
The words that you had spun,
And thus, this lie would certainly
Not have begun.

If I'd been careful at the start
Your cunning ploy to know,
I shouldn't have allowed my heart
To love you so.

Read more poems about love by JMariah

Abandoned

I am abandoned! Once again I am alone! Again I have poured out my heart in an attempt to love and receive love, only to find that it doesn’t last! That no matter how much I allow myself to let go of the past and move on, it ends! No matter how wide I open myself or how vulnerable I allow myself to be for the sake of loving so completely, my emotions are still toyed with, my love abused - mercilessly ripped out of my unsuspecting heart - and I am left abandoned! Alone! I really and truly must be unlovable! And I can’t even cry about it any more!

Well ok, maybe just this once!

Can't Smile

I am crushed between the unfriendly dying of evening and the constant blackness of night. I can't feel you, and I'm cold.

Yesterday's love making lingers in words scribbled on a page. My own breathing fills the room with a heaviness that erases fingerprints from my skin, mouth burns from my lips.

I can't see you. I can't hear you. And I can't smile any more.

Trust Me

I’m standing here on this rock yelling into the wind, begging for more than just the sound of my own echo humming back to me in my loneliness.

“Trust me.” I keep hearing you say, “Trust me.” And from far deep inside me, in that somewhere that hasn’t been reached in such a very long time, tears rise. And the place where smiles once warmed me sinks desperately under water.

The hollow swishing against my ear drums repels the sounds your tongue utters as your lips cunningly form around the words again, “Trust me”, like a crocodile saying “bite me”.

And I’m trapped between the love you say you have for me and the disdain by which you keep me beyond arms length. And it must be beyond arms length, because I reach out to touch you, only to embrace empty air – empty, stale air.

And no amount of tears will drive you to take back the actions you have set in motion against me. No amount of pleading will turn your heart around. So in the heavy dark of night, I bite my lip and defy the salt that threatens to sting my eyes, close my hands tightly over my ears to shut out the only words you smile at me – as you look down from your lofty position above me, pleased with the hold you have on me – trust me.

Silent Words

Words don’t reach their full potential when they are kept inside; when they swirl around in the mind like the smoke that goes before the lava in a mountain, only to be brutally silenced by someone else’s inability or lack of desire to listen, and therefore to possibly understand. Instead, they sit and grow cold in the swill of cooling passions or fester like pungent fungus in the still and quiet waters of the mind.

I heard once that words were thoughts, thoughts were power, and the pen is mightier than the sword. Too often we try to silence the power of others by silencing their thoughts. We cut them off in mid-sentence, overlapping their thoughts with ones of our own, as if our words were more potent, our thoughts more powerful. And we don’t even notice when the person silenced withdraws into himself, feeling powerless. We don’t notice that he quietly trades his tongue for the pen as his only outlet for the words that run around inside him, deciphering the silent state of his own mind. So we never find out where those words were coming from or where we could have taken them. We just don’t listen.

I’m alone with my silent words, that inside do no one any good but myself. And even for me they are a curse, because they are the fragments of my soul that I need to share with others. But others don’t seem to want them. Sometimes I encounter those who will graciously take the words I have to offer, smile, and feign acceptance. But later, I find those same words in trash bins under soggy bits of lettuce and used tea bags, or pushed to the back of a fridge behind the box of open baking soda that soaks all the flavour out of them.

And no one seems to notice, as I withdraw into myself, that I have touched the tip of my ball point pen to the tip of my tongue. They just tell me that it isn’t good to keep everything bottled up inside and pretend to coax more words out of me. But the words remain – silent.