Ours of fighting

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ours of fighting

Yesterday he punched my face
Today I inchly sliced his throat
Neighbours aware of our squabbles

Children’s screams echo in woods

I fell in love with the wrong man
A life we envisioned, in vain
So sure, can’t stand this game

All my earthly days pass in vain

A killer trained to torment souls
To torture, to torment; l’ve learnt
I yearn to be cupped all night

I longed to be loved, to be appreciated

In me, you’ve impinged war, Learnmore
To our love arena, a now battlefield
Know this as a man, you’ve failed

Double barrelled guns I can’t hold no more

‘Then’ nights, lifting me with a ‘man’s arm’
Now what has incited your hands
Dismantling me with bedeviled ends

First days were fun I appreciate

I yearn for utmost affection of a man
For one to rescue my vulnerable stature
From this kick boxing ring without a referee

From this agingly cursed,
solitary confinement.

Written by Baldwin Mupfeki

Parting – Poem by Charlotte Brontë

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THERE’S no use in weeping,
Though we are condemned to part:
There’s such a thing as keeping
A remembrance in one’s heart:

There’s such a thing as dwelling
On the thought ourselves have nurs’d,
And with scorn and courage telling
The world to do its worst.

We’ll not let its follies grieve us,
We’ll just take them as they come;
And then every day will leave us
A merry laugh for home.

When we’ve left each friend and brother,
When we’re parted wide and far,
We will think of one another,
As even better than we are.

Every glorious sight above us,
Every pleasant sight beneath,
We’ll connect with those that love us,
Whom we truly love till death !

In the evening, when we’re sitting
By the fire perchance alone,
Then shall heart with warm heart meeting,
Give responsive tone for tone.

We can burst the bonds which chain us,
Which cold human hands have wrought,
And where none shall dare restrain us
We can meet again, in thought.

So there’s no use in weeping,
Bear a cheerful spirit still;
Never doubt that Fate is keeping
Future good for present ill !

Charlotte Brontë


The Mystery Is To Believe

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Stop and Free

Left shattered into pieces.

Lost in the middle of the wilderness

Nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide

All that’s said was nothing to be left behind

Sitting alone under this lonely tree

Closing my eyes and breathing freely

Fallen in deep thoughts and figures

I see someone standing right in front of me

Unclear to any features of his face

Standing tall and just staring straight at me

Closer he came and sat beside me

And silence we spoke to be

Wondering who he may be

I questioned shamelessly

Who are you? What are you doing here?

Unsure if a reply would be heard

Silence was ended when hearing the words

“I am him.”

“I will make you believe that not all are the same”

I will be your guide.

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This disguise, seeming prime but haggard

Prime in rebirth
With rejuvenated growth
Like that of a Mod Seth

Time grant some good goblin jet

To pounce up this drab dins like a grigged flee
Things that be positive hung high, so sure of it
A better day, seeking us in our pernickety

A new stance we would understand

Draining this flirting dirt in some sand
Leaving it more of an ‘A’ grade
-showered from across heavens

Fate coming to the rescue lately

A bunch of mixed aspects anointed with energetic embryos
Armed to the teeth with renewed muscles for rowing the waters
Unruffled as they sing in rejuvenated river channels
In amongst the perimeters an’ parameters of recreation

Hearts glided with gold dust

Smiles smudging the sun’s rays
Footsteps bringing eternal springs
Melody that make a plant sings
All joined in nuptial swings

The Old Nick’s routes are killing kind

The parts to merry we wobble
Some brought his harp-

-but this one we take worship
All in la-expectation

Of recreation.

Written by

1) Baldwin Mupfeki
2) Gina Ancheta Agsaulio
3) Michael Kolawole
4) Eduard Ochieng
5) Jodekss Gloatkenf
6) Kwikizila. M. Consy

Can’t close my hands round it

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In front of me,
the costly, sprightly image
here ‘nd there all along

Only tiringly,
in cupping it wholly whole
‘’in closing my hands round it”

There’s always that something
everywhere ne’r, up there
Something, a thing/things
‘that my hands can’t cup’

It’s there,
of a shadowy formy-like,
yes it’s there

Growing tiringly, with shadows
ones I can’t cup in my hands

An ever flaming, sprite glow
in the West
My mere rare ray of hope

My unending yearns
of welly well, pure depthly-
well splashes
of snow-white waters,
of hope

Oh, numerous, countless
winged flights in my nightly dreams,
dreams l can’t cup

The aired castles built up
in my early early yester years
failing fiery to materialise

It’s there
The vastly sprightly image
It’s there

Only that I
can’t close my hands round it.

Written by Baldwin Mupfeki

Lovers are leavers

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lovers are leavers

Like ships that pass in the night,
so as the odds stacked against us

Adam and Eve have had the same problems,
but life has to go on for tomorrow is another day

Not every relationship an angel calls
Signs were there only we were busy surviving

There was a block, we couldn’t get through
There was work to be done,
a phase of ‘our different lives’ to be completed

Too much water had passed under the bridge
Neither of us knowing how to take it further

A unison which never stand the test of time
Everything gathered crumbling in pieces around us

Memory holds us prisoners
Sentenced to be who we could never be

To struggle, struggle and never quite get there.

Nothing more could be said,
though quite a lot might be thought.

Written by Baldwin Mupfeki

Where sound falls unreverberating

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where sound falls unreverberating

It’s a dreary, unruly location
Setting up one’s hair on ends

An abode afull of nothingness

Sound vanishes without reverberation
No echoes of intonations

She stepped in its vicinities
Heightening her sound senses
Adjusting lenses

On this earth
Bearing a quititude of death
Where none, do reside, even moth
To set a toe, one unworthy

Wide, her lips she opened
Opening a flanger like yelling
None of her utterances heard
Like a corpse, so dead

Lifting her left foot
Stomping the yard firm
Hitting a magic land with a thud
Nothing she heard

Was she alone?
Had it been a vision,
when ‘sound’ lay on mute-

Where sound falls unreverberating.

Written by Baldwin Mupfeki