Wednesday, 2 May 2012

The River that flows

The horses had been ridden,
The wars had been fought,
The lands had been conquered,
By the time we got there.

The cows had been milked,
The chicken had been slaughtered,
So before us is a banquet,
Of mouth watering opportunities,
That salivate my drive to extremities,
That touch skies beyond my limits,
And I learn the worth of just a minute.

Some just like to watch,
A bearded man chose purity,
No wine, No concubine,
Unlike the swine,
Who found it fine,
To just watch,
Horses being ridden,
Wars being fought,
Lands being conquered.

He has nothing to call his own,
So insecure,
Deflecting faults off himself,
So I can feel bad about being myself,
Daring to dream he knows not how,
So for those who can,
To put down he so knows how.

What good is a man with no ambition,
What good is a man who flows with the river,
Instead of being the river that flows.

Kavosa Assava

Sunday, 12 February 2012

Letters to Myself... "Politically Concious"

My black nails,
Sing of wails that fail,
Because of an attachment,
So unattractive,
That fills me with pain,
In my blood vessels that pump with strain,
That burgundy liquid through scarlet flesh,
Through to my limp heart,
That fills with that pain,
From black nails,
That sing wails that fail.

Innocent foetus I have been,
But saved I have been,
For some it is not the same,
For some,
It is innocent foetus that has not been,
Aborted clear of the world,
I have breathed life,
An air of filth,
But I have breathed life,
I have been blessed to see love of a mother so destroyed,
But I have seen love,
With their slings they sting,
My spine whose strength I walk,
Through hills and valleys,
On land,
In the sea,
In space,
In my dreams,
My spine that enables me to bring,
The pennies of my sweaty brow,
The pennies of my swollen feet,
The pennies of my broken heart.

For longer than you and I know,
They have held the arrow and bow,
From their black nails like mine, they crow,
Like white masters that left so long ago,
We grieve over unfruitful seeds we sew,
That have been stolen right in front of our door,
And the thief has hands that are sore,
Possessed by greed and absent of compassion,
They threw it away and it landed on the floor,
Right in front of our door.

Do you love me now?
I am neither rich nor poor,
I am nothing in need of a cure,
Do you love me now?

Kavosa Assava

Monday, 16 January 2012

Letters to Myself....To be who I am To who Iam Not.

If I could fit at the top of a mountain line,
I would seat and watch the world intertwine,
As people whined and sighed over life's unforgiving signs,
I would seat and watch as they intertwined,
As people burst in the confusion and twirled in inconclusive illusions,
I would seat and watch as they intertwined.
I wish so desperately for seconds in a day to be alone,
To remind myself of what I am in my soul,
For confinement in my mind rediscovering that person sole....LY,
Never letting go of what I have been told,
To chew and swallow all that the world throws,
Whether hot or cold.
Because around all these demons,
You forget your cute little ribbons
of innocence, that transform into little horns,
Of deceit,
Numerous characters of you you have built,
To paint little mirages of deceit,
Numerous tongues you have slipped,
Little words of deceit,
To deceive the demons,
But you only deceive yourself.
You are who you are when alone,
Unbathed by flowery scented oils that mask your odour,
Untouched by airs beyond your vacuum that blow away your delicate leaves,
So if I could seat at the top of a mountain line,
I would sing with the birds,
Breath with the trees,
Fly with the clouds,
For we would be who we really are.

Kavosa Assava

Sunday, 15 January 2012

Letters to Myself....The Sad Feeling

I started off writing this poem about someone,
But then I lost myself on line one,

So I lay on my back,
Staring at the stars,
And it was like staring at something that twinkles from afar,
But when near...fades...dwindles,

It was like staring at something that,
Could have been,
Should have been
But wouldn't be... will never be,

So I lay on my back,
When I should be prostrate on your heart,
Feeling its beat inches away like it was mine,
Feeling that heat of undying love,

However, it is fine,
Because maybe that feeling,
Of every beat speaking,
Of something,

Something so deep,
So steep,
One cannot overclimb, overcome,
Or claim over time,

Was too much a painful flame,
I would not be able to understand,
Appreciate or love in its time, or..
Over time,

And I am so sad,
So sad,

I started off writing this poem about someone,
But instead I lay on my back,
Staring at the stars,
That could have been,
Should have been,
But...I am so sad.

Kavosa Assava