4). Day of Memoriam, for “Mother Africa”
At man’s passing impulses,
I have become variable by name.
I have become variable by name.
Noble-spirited, I have admitted the ingratitude;
The anomalous definitions, borne on feeler’s ignorance;
I at the debut of motherhood,
man was the insignia subject;
I pre-existed the nomination
and replication
of all man, that this earth
contains.
Exegetic was the repository of
man in my wound which,
sublimated, the ideal
motherhood - to Mama,
for generations of millions
of sons.
Upon my bosom are my scares,
the evidences of my nurturing
feat
then see Africa from my eyes.
then see Africa from my eyes.
The tilapia, I am subtle,
kind, gentle, dismissing hunger to scoop
with unlimited love for all
my sons, litters, un-numbered.
When they were young,
vulnerable, and sheepish
they found cuddling, soothing,
nursing and reassurance,
the mother toad bags you on
her back, the oddities of salvation
“I was for all Home Sweet
Home ~Africa”
Days and months uncounted,
numerous the ages,
aging into boulders;
rolling stones and
rocky-mindedness,
which, creepily cripples
my motherly loving kindness
and undivided attention
They return from the
Milky-way
to quench their thirst,
nothing soft,
like strangers, foreigners,
aliens
indeed, they have come to be
They plunder, they rob,
they sank their teeth into
brothers back
Brother was food, fun and
jock,
he was baked and planted,
He was harvested and eating,
cooked and raw
He was killed for love and by
love
and in love, and non-counted
They scanned me out,
for gold rush,
their hunting ground,
battle-ground
power ground and burial
ground,
allotting to themselves
allotments to satisfy their
whoring passion,
sinking their appendages
and I a land for fortune
“he made his wealth in
Africa” the glory
Rule they indeed have done;
they pitted, and sieved through my bosom
for gold and silver
The pityriasis they have
infected upon my bosom
they have not tended
I beacon sincerely,
Wherefore my children, physicians,
surgeons
and all, to suture the gutted
wounds
of their father’s insatiable
throat
From the rising Sun to the
setting,
the cocks crow to silence
The hyenas laugh at the bull
eating alive
The moon rise casting shadows
and the sun rise broiling
them
The rise and fall of the
ocean,
pegs the high and low of
rush
At the surge that slaps the
sitting silent Africa
And the crow glories
quenching the flame of livid
consciences
It is “Mother” ~
relentless, conscious and the emptiness.
The Kalahari blowing dust,
the Sahara’s floating dunes
The dust sand and safari
is all that hallow
mother’s relentless pains, not-soothed
The affliction festered and non-would
heal
Black, White, Red or Yellow
name the human hue,
Prime is the Gene I
bequeathed full, complete and set,
all from same bowel, into
odyssey of life.
Whichever land you find a
home
was seeded my seed
“Mother Africa” claims~ I
still am your mother
I beacon, for my “Mother’s Day Memorial”
for I am “Mother Africa”.
