Kalahari Butterflies
white blossoms in the air
one more spring in the exile I chose
that becomes addictive to itself
cold April London streets
and record bins in Soho basement stores
the damp smiles which invite me from afar
white Kalahari butterflies
the smell of fresh cow dung
the taste of ripe marula fruit is sweet
sitting by acacia trees
fingers in the shallow dusty soil
caressing Africa as a lover would
then she embraces me
like a soul in memory
an orphan child finding its mother's knee
to protect her now in turn
I witness her defence against
all blind and negative publicity
in the maelstrom of the West
that speaks no unconditional word
in generosity, be sure
a new thing each day is begun
as I fight off voices whispering
my life's work has been done.
poem by Frank Bana
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Related quotes
Flower God, God Of The Spring
FLOWER god, god of the spring, beautiful, bountiful,
Cold-dyed shield in the sky, lover of versicles,
Here I wander in April
Cold, grey-headed; and still to my
Heart, Spring comes with a bound, Spring the deliverer,
Spring, song-leader in woods, chorally resonant;
Spring, flower-planter in meadows,
Child-conductor in willowy
Fields deep dotted with bloom, daisies and crocuses:
Here that child from his heart drinks of eternity:
O child, happy are children!
She still smiles on their innocence,
She, dear mother in God, fostering violets,
Fills earth full of her scents, voices and violins:
Thus one cunning in music
Wakes old chords in the memory:
Thus fair earth in the Spring leads her performances.
One more touch of the bow, smell of the virginal
Green - one more, and my bosom
Feels new life with an ecstasy.
poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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April's Away.
All too soon the countryside,
Now fresh greened and sprouting more
Than spring, looks out for wider
Room, shakes it's newborn blossoms
Then ushers April to the door.
And April's away.
No longer teenage, Flora's
Grown maturer now, slightly
Deeper hued, flowers adorning
Every late spring bough, while
April, already pale, turns white,
Then April's away.
Heated by more ardent sun,
Hedgerows must have stronger feed.
Palid from work early done
April leaves, - makes way for May
To ensure Flora has her needs
Now April's away.
Glorious Spring Blossoms
I drove to town this sunny morning
And right before my eyes
I saw that spring was here
It was a glorious surprise
The trees were huge plumes of pink
Like fluffy cotton candy to me
Others were white like puffy clouds
They were spectacular to see
I love the spring when dull trees turn
Whether by God or Mother Nature
It shows tomorrow has such promise
With spring blossoms sweet and pure!
poem by Marilyn Lott
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Que Sera. Sera
Beneath the trees like drifts of snow,
the dropping cherry blossoms fall.
It makes me sad to them go.
Like fleeting dreams beyond recall.
Their images I have safely stored
imprinted in my memory
I conjure up from my record
and once again I clearly see.
The spring clothed trees all pink and white
before the fruit begins to form
and I can marvel at this sight.
One miracle I can perform
Predict the future from the past
extrapolate and then forecast.
(Poeticpiers/May 07)
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Africa and Africa’s
Have seen little of history unfold
I know that one thing will always be
Africa will be,
But what is Africa’s may never be
White man came
Green lands began to dry
So did rivers and streams
Even oceans and seas
Whatever the white man sees
Seems to vanish from Africa
Like dews do in his singeing summers
When he sees peace… there! Gone
The white man said he’d in Africa invested
In actual sense he had Africa infested
Looting without shame
Claiming England is Object; Africa its subject
There was gold, grandpa says
We fight over our own
Lacerate throats and disembowel ours
Man in white fuels it dressed in black
We choose our way
Dos, don’ts, and embargoes stay
When we invent, they endear us
Purporting supervision, yet looting
What is Africa’s one day will be
And shall remain African and Africa’s
What should unite Africa is Africa’s
It will never split Africa into Africas
poem by David Munene wa Kimberly
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Outside The August Wind is Playing
Outside the August wind is playing
swinging branches up and down,
grabbing on flowers that are still standing
with fingers which are desiring
and I wait upon birds to appear again
after their around-the-world journey
while knobs are on the branches of fruit trees,
ready to unfold in blossoms
in early spring
but the cold is making its presence known
with ripe lying spread out in the early morning
while the winter season
is still doing its icy thing.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Marula tree trunk
Strong winds blow against the Marula tree trunk,
They come with miscellaneous objects,
Light and heavy,
And use them to break the Marula tree trunk,
But nothing happens to the Marula tree trunk,
Light and heavy rains come,
The Marula tree smiles,
For the plentiful rain water will make
It stronger and taller,
Animals come and sleep under and on top
Of the Marula tree,
Lean and rub their itching bodies
Against the Marula tree trunk,
Relieve themselves against it,
But nothing happens to the Marula tree trunk,
The human race use the Marula tree for shade
Against the merciless summer heat of the Limpopo sun,
And eat or make beer with Marula,
But, alas! One vicious human being returned,
And chopped it,
Off goes the faithless Marula tree trunk,
To be scorched by the everlasting home burning fires.
poem by Niki Nicholas Nkuna
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London
We came from the far North
summered in Crimea
deserted the armed forces
had to disappear
made it to the free West
on a chartered flight
so we could see what
we trained to fight
We were in London
"Let's do it - let's break the law!"
We were in London
Tell it like it is
We were in London
Tell it like it is
Looking for hard work
or credit card fraud
What do you expect from us?
We come from abroad
to get ourselves a new job
on a building-site
They work you so hard
but we trained to fight
We were in London
"Let's do it - let's break the law!"
We were in London
Tell it like it is
We were in London
"Let's do it - let's break the law!"
We were in London
Tell it like it is
My father fought in Afghanistan
His widow's pension ain't worth a damn
My mother works and goes home to cry
I want to live before I die
We were in London
"Let's do it - let's break the law!"
We were in London
Tell it like it is
We were in London
Tell it like it is
song performed by by Pet Shop Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Spring In Lisnaboy
My many walks on memory lane i enjoy
'Twill soon be Spring again in old Lisnaboy
And though March 1 is the first of the calendar Spring
March can be wet and cold and few songbirds do sing.
But April she comes with her hosts of wildflowers
And the nesting birds sing in the mild April showers
And old Lisnaboy at it's best to be seen
And everywhere looking so lush and so green.
And April will fade to the beauty of May
And the swallows above the lush fields all the day
Will sing as they chase flies with young to be fed
In their mud nest on a rafter of some nearby shed
And at dawn before the sun shines in the sky
The skylark to greet the day upwards does fly
And the hawthorns heavy laden in their blossoms of white
In the full bloom of beauty a beautiful sight.
The bloom of lost youth we can never regain
But i do love my walks on memory lane
And a hark to the past is a thing i enjoy
Fond memories of Spring in old Lisnaboy.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The First Jasmines
Ah, these jasmines, these white jasmines!
I seem to remember the first day when I filled my hands with
these jasmines, these white jasmines.
I have loved the sunlight, the sky and the green earth;
I have heard the liquid murmur of the river thorough the
darkness of midnight;
Autumn sunsets have come to me at the bend of a road in the
lonely waste, like a bride raising her veil to accept her lover.
Yet my memory is still sweet with the first white jasmines
that I held in my hands when I was a child.
Many a glad day has come in my life, and I have laughed with
merrymakers on festival nights.
On grey mornings of rain I have crooned many an idle song.
I have worn round my neck the evening wreath of bakulas woven
by the hand of love.
Yet my heart is sweet with the memory of the first fresh
jasmines that filled my hands when I was a child.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Re-awakening
My Africa breathes blood.
Let her bathe her wounds
in the sweet waters of understanding,
let ubuntu warm her heart,
let her sing in unison with the voices of her rainbow nation,
let her savour forgiveness on her multi-coloured tongue,
let her fly with the masekhane eagle
into the hazy blue of the new South Africa
and let her breathe golden acacia blossoms of all time.
(13 November 2000)
poem by Diana van den Berg
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The White African
The White African
By
Ross Dix-Peek
Over the great ocean seas
My ancestors did choose to flee,
Europe’s rumblings and poverty,
And to “Darkest Africa” did journey
It was many, many years past,
When Queen Vic’ was still at the mast,
When my forebears resolute did come,
To live beneath the great African sun
Since has Mother Africa suckled our young
To us her lullabies and sweet songs sung,
And all this time ‘neath her fiery mantle
Did my people in Africa live, toil and battle
Africa is not for the mild and the meek,
It's no place at all for the feeble and the weak,
And the days oft be savage and so very long,
Yes, it's only for the brave and the very strong
Many generations did pass, and many years shorn,
Before I too upon African soil was born,
Like my fathers’ before, a White African,
Created and cast beneath her scorching sun
And although I have since her rugged shores left,
My soul to Mother Africa’s bosom will forever be cleft,
And though I may miss the tight embrace of an African sun,
It matters not, for I will forever be a White African!
poem by Ross DixPeek
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April, Dear April
April, dear April, I beg you come soon –
And bring your sweet primroses too.
Let them join in with the daffodils’ play,
As skies offer sunshine anew.
April, dear April, my blessed spring child,
Ornate in your yellow and white,
Teasing the birds into trilling their songs
And dancing to music of flight.
April, dear April, come enter my dreams
And rid me from cold winter chills.
Banish the rain and those blustery winds
And warm up our countryside hills.
April, dear April, I know you can’t stay -
You have to move on ‘till next year.
And though I shall cherish the glory of summer,
You’ll always be my month most dear.
From: Succumbed to Thinking by Mark Raymond Slaughter, lulu.com
Copyright © Mark Raymond Slaughter 2009
All rights reserved
April April April April
April April April April
April April April April
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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The Nit Picker
A garden full of tender care
brings joy beyond and above
NOT UNLIKE A CHILD
When given unconditional love
For like a garden that’s picked and picked
a child will not grow
for so much picking just destroys the roots
and no more blossoms will show
From the depth of the earth the weeds appear
their ugly forms take over
the child that’s hurt shows anger abound
and the offender should run for cover
So slow down now and think about
the damage that you have done
AS A PARENT OF SUCH A
WONDERFUL CHILD
who’s life has just begun
Don’t turn her into a garden of weeds
its time, from where I'm sitting
turn it around with love abound
and stop that cruel nit picking
poem by Janice M Pickett
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As The Spring Walks
the spring walks to the trees
to the flowers
to the leaves
the leaves turn to flowers
flowers to whites
slowly and sreadı ly
the restaurants disperse themselves to the streets
even the multi colored gaRDENS
opening to the children
people throw themselves to the pavements
the ugly
yhe good
the best and th dı rty
all together
all of them are walking in the spring
at one moment
hopeful
hopeless
living is drawing from their skirts
as he wishes
on the lips
a little smiles
bitter or ticklı ng
may be a piece of
living remnants
even if he does not want
a littler boy treads to the spring
treads smalls to the spring
his small shoes
caressing the spring
they were saying that
the spring will never come this year
but it came at last
nearer and nearer
closer and closer
use it as you wish
fry it in oven
or soak it with the sea
when the days become wrmer
the birds are happier
turning the pidgeons in the air
crowing the crown harder
there is the magpie
gone mad as ifs
gone crazy or insane
the spring walks to the trees
blossoms
as a turntable the time
dropping leaves in winter
, blossoming in summer
the litle girls playing balls
in the gardens
childish
ı know
the flowers must have bloomed
in my mother's grave wildish
theyt need even a little prayer
father is not known where
as he wanted there
may be that is the best for remembering
did not ı lost my sister in may
i do not even remember
slowly passes time
we are destined to live
as long as we live
blind or half lame
even if we scare
pray or not pray
our end is always in black soil
but the truth is covered with a wall
and one day
we will pass over
and eternalkly live there
fire it drops where
trouble disturbs us
time passing by
one day
we will say to all of you
and the spring googd bye
my rebellingf time has passed
long ago
but ı wonder
from time to time
when will the spring to me
will ever come
poem by Metin Sahin
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No Other
Go and hug her
Your mother, your life giver
A soul divine.
Leave not your mother
A woman so kind..............Keya Mukerjee
Mother and no other
I wish again to see her
In kindest form ever known
She is mother of my own
I have wept
With hidden face and kept
Her memory and face
Those always made me cry and chased
It is repeat divine performance
A child gets unique chance
To be born to a mother
Rejoice for a while and not to bother
She is Mother Nature
Every season presents for sure
New leaves and flowers
For old trees with rainy showers
I miss each moment of life
As she has witnessed an edge of knife
To upkeep child away from all misfortune
Sing with melody to quiet with fine tune
Those words baffle me sometimes
Where will she be gone in old times?
I literally miss with wet eyes
When a memory flood and suddenly flies
I not only salute her selfless existence
But bow head in recognition at once
How come she cares so much for lovely child?
When fate is known to witness later on to be blind
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Blossoms and My Love
The unusual winter warmth,
Has brought the spring fever in the nature and in my heart,
The pink, purple and white blossoms are blooming all around,
just reminding me of your warm and sensuous loving heart.
How can I compare your beauty with the spring blossoms?
In red blossoms, I see your luscious red lips,
In white blossoms, I see your beautiful body,
The purple blossoms, reminds me of the depth of your eyes,
Closer I get to the blossoms,
closer I get to the God's intricate creation,
Closer I get to your loving affection,
closer I watch the heavenly smiles on your lips.
Under the blossoming tree I walk,
the fragrance fills my love yearning heart,
When I hug you with my sincere love,
your sweet 'I love you' words, fills me with eternal love.
poem by Jay P Narain
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Sweet Silence Speaks
At the brink of the midnight
When every mortal sleeps
When voices turn their faces
Then the sweet silence speaks
With the onset of the moonlight
Slowly deserting the streets
When the noises are duped
Then the sweet silence speaks
When the zephyrs are high
At the snow covered peaks
And the voices get numb
Then the sweet silence speaks
I desperately wait to meet her
Through days and all through the weeks
I really die to hear her voice
And then the sweet silence speaks
Through an edge of a dream
When my sweety slowly peaks
All of a sudden I wake up
When the sweet silence speaks
poem by Sumeet Mukherjee
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Green Bananas
Does anyone eat green bananas?
then why have them in the stores?
By the time you think of eating one ripe!
they're full of fruit flies, in the hundreds or maybe more!
My husband loves green bananas
he says, cause they're solid and much more flavorful.
I think they taste kind of green and bitter
with every green and bitter mouthful!
I wonder if monkeys eat them green?
Or do they also wait until they're ripe?
Just peeling them when they're green
leaves those long stringy things of white!
I've taken to freezing mine now
in plastic bags, for my daily protien shakes!
Now I don't have to worry about the ones that turn black!
From the green ones that I wouldn't take!
poem by Linda Winchell
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The Dying Child
He could not die when trees were green,
For he loved the time too well.
His little hands, when flowers were seen,
Were held for the bluebell,
As he was carried o'er the green.
His eye glanced at the white-nosed bee;
He knew those children of the spring:
When he was well and on the lea
He held one in his hands to sing,
Which filled his heart with glee.
Infants, the children of the spring!
How can an infant die
When butterflies are on the wing,
Green grass, and such a sky?
How can they die at spring?
He held his hands for daisies white,
And then for violets blue,
And took them all to bed at night
That in the green fields grew,
As childhood's sweet delight.
And then he shut his little eyes,
And flowers would notice not;
Birds' nests and eggs caused no surprise,
He now no blossoms got;
They met with plaintive sighs.
When winter came and blasts did sigh,
And bare were plain and tree,
As he for ease in bed did lie
His soul seemed with the free,
He died so quietly.
poem by John Clare
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