INADEQUATE

INADEQUATE

You are the beautiful rose I wish I would behold
for more than a while
but you always turn your back and look away,
if only you could allow me,
I would look into your eyes
and put words to the unsung silence
and unfold what is in my heart
that which only my eyes speak of.
but I cannot, my dear,
for to you I am inadequate.

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Copyright © Victor Gordon

Victor Gordon Musara (Vic Tor Jacob) is on facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/vic.tor.1213986

Disclaimer: The image used herein is taken from the Internet. Due appreciation and credit is acknowledged for the same.

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GLORY BE TO CHRIST

GLORY BE TO CHRIST

[IN ZIMBABWE, JACARANDA FLOWERS START TO BLOOM FROM MID OCTOBER, A SIGN THAT EXAMS ARE AROUND THE CORNER.]

Glory be to You Christ for these blooming Jacarandas jacaranda.inset
with ramified leafless branches
pointing up to the clear welkin of this Savanna noon,
their delicate purple flowers scattered
all over the school courtyard,
they stir my memory of a time
at this same place,
the days when I was still little
and I had to cross a stream which was much ordinary
than the brine before me
Thank You Lord for this invisible air
whose existence is a mystery
yon’ what my mind can fathom,
yet its presence is tangible
as long as my heart beats,
even at rate lower than this:
the beat from the choir percussion,
and adrenaline much higher.

But the caprices of my heart,bj church 2
with a faith so feeble, 
distance me from You my Lord.
Have mercy on me oh Christ
and carry me across this brine
lest these days become a poignant memory
that will haunt me till I sleep
Eternal sleep.

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Copyright © Victor Gordon

Victor Gordon Musara (Vic Tor Jacob) is on facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/vic.tor.1213986

Disclaimer: The images used herein are taken form the Internet. Due appreciation and credit is acknowledged for the same.

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FIRE ON GREEN PASTURE

FIRE ON GREEN PASTURE

(THIS POEM HAS BEEN CALLED FORTH BY THE ATTACKS ON BLACK FOREIGNERS-XENOPHOBIA-IN THE REPUBLIC OF SOUTH AFRICA. REFERENCE TO “LITTLE-LONDON” HERE IS MADE WITH RESPECT TO HOW SOME PEOPLE FROM OTHER AFRICAN COUNTRIES REFER TO CITIES LIKE JOHANNESBURG AS “LITTLE-LONDON”s)

xenophobic-attack-02

The outsiders bid farewell to you Little-London,
Fire on your pasture forces them to flee
To sweet home, home sweet home
They all come to you for different reasons,
And with different intentions,
You lure them all,
The cruel and the kind,
The hardworking and the lazy,
The educated; and even the illiterate,
You seduce them all
They try to calibrate themselves to your society,

south-africa

 

Your culture,
Your dressing,
And language,
They make homes away from home,
Mingle and fit in
Where you do not want them,
Like an uninvited jilted maiden
At an ex-lover’s wedding anniversary
They receive privileges forbidden them,
They are a wandering flock
Grazing on forbidden pasture,
Breathing the air
Meant for your flock,
They are the alleged cause
Of your own follies;
Of climate change,
Of children skipping school,
Of the highest rates of divorce,
Of the highest rates of early, unplanned pregnancies,
Of the highest levels drug abuse among teenagers;
And of abortion,
Of the highest crime rates,
Of unemployment,
Of the infamous strikes and demonstrations
That result in blood being shed,
Of power cuts,
Of guns in schools,
Of the..!

There is a lisp in the outsiders’ assumed calibration,
It sets them far apart from your flock,
It is a tattoo on the forehead;
It identifies them,
And they stand out as aliens, to be condemned,
To die in the most excruciatingly evil way:
Death by fire, by knife; and by stone,
More painful than pain,
Your flock set fire on your green pasture
To burn the outsiders,
With a flame so vehement the whole world has eyes upon you,
Lovely Little-London, were your pastures green
Would they burn so vehemently?
Beautiful Little-London
The cure for the chaos in you is not chaos,
The solution to the gangrene on your heart
Is not infliction of pain on guilty innocent outsiders,
But look deep into yourself
With an unblinking eye,
Have you been faithful to yourself;
And to THE MOST HIGH?

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Copyright © Victor Gordon

Victor Gordon Musara (Vic Tor Jacob) is on facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/vic.tor.1213986

Disclaimer: The images used herein are taken form the Internet. Due appreciation and credit is acknowledged for the same.

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TEENAGERS’ BALL

TEENAGERS’ BALL

 

vic

A poem for Mamoe (Nicole)

“Get o’er here!” you bid me join
And I, transfixed at Dawn,
But gape at you, my dear; and he, and the revellers at Dusk

The Revellers:
The conceited dance ballet,
Twirling in pairs with a swirl
Their slender lithe bodies swish through the air
Imposing arrogant silhouettes on the wall
Which shimmers, as if resentful of their delicacy;
From that beam through the door;
But the splendid parquetry deceives,
Some pairs slip and slump on the cold hard floor.

You, my dear, are serene;
Mellowed by the serenade.

Twilight is dying, dusk is born;
Night is growing old,
It is getting darker and darker.
The pairs embrace and kindle a passion halo.
The glow of such embrace is mediocre,
They find a warmer glow ‘neath each other’s tutus and breeches,
But the flame of such warmth singes;
By and by, some ballerinas change girdles
With bigger ones as buds sprout in their bellies.

By and by, the foolish tire;
And tumble from prancing as injured knight horses
You, my dear; and he, are radiant, your eyes sapphire!
Are you part of the revelers?

Prancing and ballet have grown banal
The revellers decide to improvise the flue’s melody
Of fumes whirling flippantly; stifling your smile,
Some imitate the Sponge and get drenched
Other play nurse with syringes
Capsules
Lozenges
And strange pills:
Inviting Grim Reaper.

I join you on the moonlit balcony;
You titter as you marvel at the starry sky
Oh dear; your titter is irony
To he, “We resemble the twin stars” you say;
And to me, “The Little White Dwarf-lovelorn”
You laud the intimacy twin stars portray;
My dear, the stars are but gleaming
Pearls studded on a brine of darkness
How paradoxical? I am longing,
For a caress
Akin to your lambent embrace unto he my dear
And I grope on this little stair,
Teenage, where caresses and embraces but flare!

Time flaps her wings fast my dear, time flies
The colt in me cannot keep pace with her
“Give free rein to your cravings,” she says,
“Consider the brevity of life!”-Even so my dear,
I have become frigid,
To the sweet aromas and aphrodisiac melodies;
Mirages clogged my mind, my neurons frayed.
My puritanism, and gravitas;
They are fabrics of a stale fashion of preservation.

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Copyright © Victor Gordon

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Victor Gordon Musara (Vic Tor Jacob) is on facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/vic.tor.1213986

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