Through the thick African bush
Through the thick African bush
a troop of soldiers patrol
with black painted faces
and webbing with ammunition bags
strapped around their chests
and h-frames, water bottles
and weapons in their hands
and death
as a comrade leaves
its tracts with them.
They do not ask any questions
in a v-formation they move along
they move along
and death takes its toll
of the enemy
and eats like a cancer
on the soul of everyone
that carries its instruments.
Small like ants
they tread tracts
in to Africa
and their buddy gets wings
and grows as far as they go
and bloody and dark and grim
it spreads over the whole continent
and brakes out
everywhere across the earth.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Related quotes
Archangel of Death
Over fields of War soars the Raven, on wings of Death he flies
He sees the clash of bone and sword, hears the dying cries
Flies above the bloodied earth, his wings black out the sun
Come to collect the honored dead, each and every one
Angel of Death, Azrael, the Bloody Reaper Grim
Raven of Death, Herder of Souls, the Black Winged Seraphim
His face shrouded in shadow, in his hands a blackened sword
The Angel in Black, Collector of Souls, darkest servant of the Lord
The Raven soars the skies of earth, to collect men's final breath
Azrael, the Reaper Grim, Archangel of Death.
poem by Tim Vallie
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The Black Continent
Africa, Africa, Africa!
The Black Continent full of raw materials and talented people;
For the Blackman is capable of managing his own affairs.
Beautiful South Africa,
Beautiful North Africa,
Beautiful East Africa,
Beautiful West Africa,
And beautiful Central Africa! !
This Black Continent is full of natural resources.
Visit Africa to understand our ways,
For we have more to the world!
And like the muse of the animals in the forest,
But The Black Continent means a lot to all of us on this earth:
Africa, Africa, Africa! !
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Beat Patrol
Chorus:
Heaven move me, move my soul
Here comes the beat
Here comes the beat patrol
We will dance...
I will help you if I can
I can change the way you feel today
When your world turns upside down
Its time to make the break and dance into another day
And as the music starts to move you
Then its time to go
Into the streets you dance
And then you lose control
Heaven move me, move my soul
Here comes the beat
Here comes the beat patrol
We will dance, we will dance
Heaven move me, move my soul
Here comes the beat
Here comes the beat patrol
We will dance, we will dance
This is the age when you must win
Cos there is no gold upon the streets today
You must find it from within
Music brings the dream machine your way
And as the feeling starts to move you
Then its time to go
Into the streets you dance
And then you lose control
Heaven move me, move my soul
Here comes the beat
Here comes the beat patrol
We will dance, we will dance
Heaven move me, move my soul
Here comes the beat
Here comes the beat patrol
We will dance, we will dance
A say yeah, a say yeah, yeah, yeah
What you say here come the what
Here come the beat, here come the beat patrol
Here come the beat we will dance
Heaven move me, move my soul
Here comes the beat
Here comes the beat patrol
We will dance, we will dance
Heaven move me... I see it coming... it wont be long now
Here come the beat, here come the beat patrol
We will dance, we will dance
(heaven move me move my soul
Here comes the beat, here comes the beat patrol)...
song performed by by Starship
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Africa Call (Black People)
You are black still your feet
know not Africa soil, you
are black still your eyes have
never witness how the sun
rise and fall in Africa, you are
black yet you have never nod
or move your hips to any Africa
music. How free is your blood?
How thick is it? How long will
you remain slave and erased from
your Africa root? Come home peace
dwell here, come and taste the runing
water of Africa, come let Africa free you.
poem by Enyinwa Okechukwu Enyinwa
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The spoor
We were flown in
by a Puma helicopter
hot on the tracts
of a group of terrorists
who had attacked some farms.
A Bushman tracker was in the front
on the spoor, armed with a old R1,
two of the section
was armed with LMG’s
and I carried the a short barrel R5
and it was very hot
under a merciless sun.
The tracker told us
that one of the enemy
was wounded and at places
we saw drops of blood
and it looked
as if he was dragging his leg
in the way that he walked.
The going was fast
as we didn’t want to let them pass
the chop line back into Angola
and we were at a jog.
Suddenly in the distance
there was a firefight
and some shots rang out
sounding like AK-47’s
and locking our weapons
we hastened,
not knowing if another patrol
or who or what
had run into the enemy.
When got on the scene
the wounded terrorist was dead
trampled by a African Buffalo
who gored him
before setting on its enemy’s tracts.
He was left behind
by the group
who had come across an African Buffalo
and had fired at it,
only wounding that black beast
and had run away in the front of it.
The Bushman smiled and shook his head
laughing because of the actions
of the stupid terrorists
and we were hot on the tracks
of the Buffalo
following through a rocky dried out wadi
past some bushes
and into longer grass
when suddenly the eyes of the tracker
went huge as saucers
and he turned around
stumbled past me
and dropped his gun
on the ground right
next to me
running as if for his life.
This was quite awkward
seeing a man run
who had fought numerous
firefights with me
without a whimper of fear
now running as if
the devil himself
was on his heels
but the Buffalo
had turned around
on its tracks.
I saw that African beast
with eyes glaring almost red
and nostrils wide open
and horns lowered
and knew that my rifle
wouldn’t stop it
and if I didn’t I would be dead,
but the R1 would probably
since its larger full metal jacket bullets
could rip right through trees.
It must have been the quickest
that I have ever
picked up a gun
exchanging it for mine
bringing it to my shoulder
and started firing
and I could scarcely
believe my luck
when that buffalo bull
dropped there at my feet.
[References: R1= A rifle similar to the Belgian FN. R4= A rifle similar to the Israeli Gaelil. R5= a Shorter barrelled version of the R4 with folding stock, sometimes used by paratroopers and other special force soldiers. LMG= Light Machinegun. Chop line= Cleared aria on the border between South West Africa (now Namibia) and Angola.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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My buddies (a reply to Boris Slutsky)
All young white men at a time
was forced into the military, into war
or had to serve a three year jail term
and most of my buddies came home,
but some did not:
Parachuting into a enemy camp
there was one close friend that died,
the other three I hardly knew
and to the government it was
an incidental small thing against
seven hundred and fifty
enemy SWAPO and Cuban casualties
and on one patrol one close buddy
stepped on a landmine
were blown up and no one else was hurt,
and to the government it was
an incidental small thing against
the enemy that had lost
little lest than a full platoon.
In Angola when we met enemy armour,
turned FAPLA / Cuban divisions
under Soviet leadership into junk
I saw a Ratel armoured car
that was trapped in a landmine field
that had been shot out
with the holes
were enemy tank projectiles went in
and every one inside was burnt, incinerated
if not blown to bits, turned into ash
and it had been only one of eleven
armoured cars
and troop carriers that was lost
some of only thirty-one soldiers dead
but there was pain that flashed through me
when I saw it
and to the government it was
an incidental small thing against
four thousand seven hundred and eighty five killed
on the Cuban/FAPLAN side,94 tanks
and hundreds of enemy combat vehicles destroyed
and now no one thinks
of the sacrifice that all of these soldiers made,
of the hundreds of thousands
of returning citizen force soldiers
who were nuts, bomb happy
with post traumatic stress syndrome
or whatever you want to call it
as to the government it is
an incidental small thing,
that happened in a distant past
as if the ex-soldiers are non-existing,
even seen as apartheid criminals by some.
[References: Buddies here used as name used in the South African Defence Force for comrades. Ex-soldiers here used instead of war veterans, as in African circles the word war veterans has got a new derogatory meaning connected to it. My Comrades by Boris Slutsky.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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a Ray of sunlight
It was in the middle of the day
and the sun was high and bright,
in the deep blue African sky.
The LMG was getting heavy
and hot in my hands
and gnats were turning
round the piece of grass
in my brown bush hat.
Sweat were running
down my face
and like any other day,
a patrol in the hot
African bush was great fun
especially when your water
bottle was near empty
and your throat started to burn
and the going was fast.
The bushman tracker
was hot on the enemy spoor
and where the terrain
got more open,
we halted for a moment.
a Ray of sunlight
reflected bright like a flash light,
somewhere to the left
and pointed out an enemy ambush.
We half circled past
and attacked from their rear
and the LMG stuttered
from my hip
and suddenly the bush was clear
and the firefight was over
and an ominous silence hanged
deep in the African bush.
[Reference: => LMG=> Light machine gun. Spoor=>Track]
poem by Gert Strydom
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African Child
AFRICA CHILD
Africa child a leader in the world
Africa child you grow so tender
In the two hands of your mother
Into a matured man to move the world
You really sucked the milk
Of your Africa mother with love, strong ness, neatness and greatness.
You were seen when little like a dull person but proved them all wrong.
Oh! Child you greatly moved the world
By showing your Africa ness in- you through the power
A leader in the world you are
I believe other continent
Will see your glittering black with a very good respect and integrity.
Child, I greet you with respect
‘Cos you are the colour that spark
With the whiteness of your eyes and teeth comes out to
Move very well with your minds
And soul to think so great.
I put on you the highest rank
In the world because you deserve
To be there, child! (c)
poem by Chinwendu Ibeh
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In Death, My Final Part
A tower grim; a glowering darkness,
And only brown of red the other hue
– I saw it in the distant eyes –
And yes, He knew, but focussed only
On the mortal soul of mine –
After all, He had a role to play,
And wine: my shivering blood to quaff!
If only I could Him betray –
To break the seal of destiny;
Escape the lone cacophony
That emanates from wailing minds!
Damn the fate of His – it awes and blinds!
But oh! the mighty hammer strikes a toll;
The slow approach of Him upon the knoll
Commences exudation of a dying heart.
Endorsing all, I honed my final part.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2009
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The final part
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Out Of Africa
We trod and trod only for out of Africa
We still tread in summer
We always cry out for help
The help of numerous African feebles
We at rest squeeze and squeeze only for gold
We still squeeze ourselves to the fumes
Fumes of poverty by our sites of sights on board
And we never overcome ourselves
We indeed tread and trod for a hand
For out of Africa is our face
Our face of dark and red continent of bungs
But nicely and strongly made
We can't stand near ourselves
Only if well induced
Add power to these poor mothers
Our energetic mothers with children ahead
These African frameworks, these poor beings!
We exceedingly tread for help
For Africa is not for Africans' hope
Yes we can states engulfed by this sky
We need to come out of these flakes
We trod and trod for out of Africa
We still tread in summer
We always flip for alittle push
Push for a support of our wholesome
For without kings' look we are drowned
And these heaps of feebles shall dance at us all
poem by Paul Mwenelupembe
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Under a bush hat
Under a bush hat
high up in a big tree
with my pack on my back
and strapped to a branch,
with a rifle in my hands
sleep crept up on me
really casually.
a Branch breaking at the bottom
brought me quickly back to reality
and I was astounded
to see a company of black men
armed with enemy weapons
passing without looking up.
Later it turned out to be
friendly forces,
being were they should not have been
but we could have drawn
friendly fire
and suffered casualties
and somehow a higher power
kept elite soldiers from detecting us.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Death Is Death, Dissolution Of All
All over this mammoth Earth,
There is nothing like death;
All over this mammoth Earth,
Nothing escapes death
Except that strange death itself.
What is this death,
Perchance, death itself knows not;
Whence it springs,
Where are its wings,
Fancied none in these million years.
It’s the live black hole
In dance along the time’s scale;
Nothing escapes its rapacious field
And nothing ever breaks out of its shield,
Death is death, dissolution of all.
Is death a beginning, none ever ever knows,
No mysteries as mysterious as death ever is;
No light or shade nor talent prised it,
No voyages ever came back out of its womb,
Nor light-years ever scaled the depth of death.
Death brings down all to the Nature’s womb,
To the Natures pristine pure form;
No rise or fall nor glory or shame,
‘Neath the mysterious death, all are same;
Indeed, the supreme equalizer is death.
Death is true peace, death is ultimate pain,
Death is finding peace in the folds of pain;
Death robs light and spreads dark night
And numbs soul to the inevitable truth, that
Born out of night, but we are part of that night.
poem by Praveen Kumar
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It's Death Again
It's Death again - He's always there -
Watching, waiting - e'er the stare!
Every time I look behind
Or reach to pull the window blind,
I catch a glimpse of grubby hood -
A little clue to where he stood;
The glint of light that caught the scythe.
Perhaps if I could pay a tithe…
But O! no use, he'll never go.
The adamant phantom; don't you know
He will but wait until it's time
For me to hear His fateful chime? -
The toll that claims my destiny,
To Hail: 'You're next, it has to be…'
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2009
The Reign of Death
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Suitcases Don't Have Wings
Small bags big bags
Black bags white bags
Suitcases hey hey hey
For work and for play
Crammed full of things
Suitcases dont have wings
White bags black bags
Complete with one-way tags
Dragging us down
Ever closer to the ground
All the time they sing
Suitcases dont have wings
Big bags small bags
That behind us we drag
Past present and future
We cram so much in n' gotcha
We've been forgetting
suitcases dont have wings
All bags every bag
That we painfully drag
Drop them at jesus feet
Cause all ur needs he'll meet
Suitcases hey hey hey
They get in the way
Drop them if you want in
Suitcases dont have wings
poem by Joses Tirtabudi
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The Pride To Be An African
My Africa My Africa My Africa
My Africa of which everybody imitates
My Africa of which culture exceed the Greek
My Africa of which everyone is jealous of
My Africa My Africa My Africa
My Africa of enormous natural endowment
My Africa of Non-Violence
My Africa of Amorous populates
My Africa My Africa My Africa
My Africa of patriot men and women
My Africa of shelter and vintage hospitality
My Africa of great ancestral mythology
My Africa My Africa My Africa
My Africa that bore fruits of black diamonds
My Africa which is a gift to the whole world
My Africa of great leadership
My Africa My Africa My Africa
My Africa of learned youths
My Africa of a bright generation
My Africa true tradition
My Africa My Africa My Africa
My Africa of black pageant women
My Africa of strong men
My Africa from who we all hail from
For every African deserves a Nobel Prize in
Existence.
poem by Fasan paul
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Mother Africa
Move, move, move!
Academic and academicians;
Where are you to move Mother Africa forward?
Think, think, think!
Illitrates and literates;
Where are you to double up the pace?
Look at the mother hen and think twice;
It shelters its chicken in times of danger! !
Where are you to move things forward?
Where are you to move Africa forward?
Where are the prophets?
Where are you to move things upfront?
Yes, the better ones have come and gone.
They came telling us the truth;
But, what do we see nowadays?
Now, where lise the future of Mother Africa? ! !
Look at the mother hen and think twice.
Mother Africa, move forward;
Move upfront to put the world in shape.
Academic and academicians,
Illitrates and literates,
Think big for Mother Africa! !
Move Africa into a better position on this globe.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Death, My Friend
Death, my friend - so good to see you!
Stand aloft and view my soul!
I have to say you’re looking frightful -
Bony chum, you affable ghoul.
Death, my friend, so charmed I’m sure!
State your case and tell me straight -
Am I worthy of reward, so
Venture I to Heaven’s Gate?
Death, my friend, a new acquaintance!
You're always welcome in my home -
Though the stare from empty sockets
Indicates to Hell we roam!
Death, my friend - my bosom buddy.
My! your finger points at me!
Be you tired of my frivolity?
Aha, I see - Oblivion, we!
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2009
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Soldier's Reality
The drums of war beat in the distance,
A constant beat of gun shots.
The men and boys fighting.
Waiting for the war to end, to go back home.
They sit in the cover of the long grass,
Guns loaded, hearts pounding.
They wait for a signal, a sign,
To rise, run, and fire.
Till then they sit, watching, bullets passing by.
They watch people falling, their lives leaving.
Nothing matters to them except that they live,
That they get to see their family again.
Smoke hangs in the air,
A thick mist that reminds them that they're at war,
Keeping them in reality, keeping their eyes open.
The constant rhythm of guns against heart beats,
Both pounding, both screaming.
The black sky closing in on them,
Keeping them in the small battle that they can not escape,
They move back from the front line,
Move away from the fire, the death.
Some walk, some run, some cry, some pray,
But they all move on.
They all go back to camp, to wait for more death and pain.
For tomorrow.
The talking goes late into the night.
Men and women desperate for happiness,
They sit around guns in hand,
Ready for anything.
The shooting never stops, never leaves their minds,
Even in the depths of this black night,
Nothing ends except the next person's life,
Nothing is right, nothing is normal, nothing feels real,
But in truth and in the midst of everything so surreal,
This is the soldiers reality.
by: bethany M.
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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Edelweiss
THERE grows a white, white flower
By the wild Alps of romance;
And who would reach its dainty leaves
Takes life and death in chance.
There is a dark, dark cavern
Where a woman goes alone,
Takes hope and peril in her hand
And fights Death on his throne.
To our heart’s breathless calling
She comes from the cavern wild,
Holding in her exhausted arms
A small, white, blossoming child.
poem by Frank Wilmot
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African Boy
I am a young African boy
A unique individual with my own personal inspiration
Which is the golden key to build my future.
With a mind confused
I can still reach politely to others.
With a heart that's has been destroyed
I can still feel and care for others.
With pain that has cut deep down in my heart
I can still fell sympathy for others. with all that is in me I can still overcome those situations.
I can be a person I am
The one whose heart is filled with joy and passion.
I am a young African boy.
I'm proud of my black badged African skin.
I am an African
Not because I was born here
But because my heart beats with Africa.
Not because my skin is black
But because my mind is engaged by Africa.
I am an African
Not because I live on its soil
But because my soul is at home in Africa.
When Africa weeps for her children
My chicks are stained with tears.
When Africa honor her elders
My head is bowed with respect.
When Africa mourns for her victims
My hands are joined in prayer.
Africa my home
Africa my land
Land of peace
Land of my forefathers
Land of my birth
When Africa celebrates her triumphs
My feet are alive with dancing.
poem by Elvis Fout
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