Yes, and perhaps some people can’t deal with my stupidity,
But some do sense sanity in it,
Because I like teasing my complex little self,
But I rarely scare my closest human, I’m just a normal being that renders
The other side of sense a chance to tell its own fairy tale, the story, the memoir…
Stupidity? What makes you say so? Are you even aware that you’re an inspiration
To some people, me included?
Sanity can be rarely and rudely excessive, to submit us in vulnerable terms
And eyes of society… Likewise, you as an individual shouldn’t give those around you
Benefits of the doubts, neither succumb to the pressures surrounding you,
Exactly! My point is, creative sense is a radical extremist sense,
It takes more than word-sound to comprehend,
It is a language. It speaks to the mind, heart and soul…
True, but not many relate to that like we easily do,
And we are just atoms, poetry a particle. Indeed we are atoms. I like the expression.
Same here, I write what I experience. We are patches on patches of these soils of our land,
We are words spoken and riddled, phrases and proverbs
On nerves of our existence, the experiment, our experience;
For expression is our intent… Raindrops that shower from scarce shallow clouds,
Unknown rhythms only understood by the orator, to the mass
Is a senseless untamed and not tuned flute…
That echoes its sound to the ear of a poetic self like birds
And winds that whistle across my ear flaps as though rains
Would pour along shoulders of this greatness…
Excitement raptures through sharp ear canals, tearing thin membranes
Of the oblongata, forming melancholic melic to the scribbler,
Quivering none stop on a scrappy pad, creating memories
Only dear to him and few who can relate…
As though it was just a mere dream. For dreamers are seekers of paths that wither
In skeletons of their expression but glitters
In giants of their intentions. Seducing our night with serene darkness
Of empty skies when nature begins its music to the mystics of our toes and dances,
Norms and matrices to thrust our thirsty senses,
Kissing trees as they lean on each other’s branches and shades of grey shadows
Behind mountains of the gods. Between grasslands and sandy grains of our soils.
I wish I could be my forefathers’ mouthpiece, for I’d cease to amaze angels
Of greed at ease. Tormenting their course before eyes of their might, with words
Behind their prison walls. An illusion, only positive not to an archaic mind but
An artful sense admired by only not an un-doubtful mindset,
Set from the core of a skillful writer with a swelling heart, ready to bellow syllables
Like a crazy bull roaring from far-fetched dry pastures…
Roaring to find its soul mate and mark its territorial space in the face of the sun,
Rising its shine and raising its hand for the revolution of the evolution of art
And desire, like fields and masters.
Clucks of angry horns heard afar by herdsmen resting their
Scotched bare backs under thorny scarcely shades of jacaranda trees,
Roars of bulls contesting within the same kraal arouses nemesis enough
To tear one community apart, due to territorial integrity…
And I write in the dark night. I’m a nocturnal writer. And it’s so erotically creative
Than day times. The weirdest part of me, a steamy night of brainy juices; our taste bud.
05022019-0151 | The Voice of a Shadow Poetry anthology
Onalethuso Petruss Buyile Mambo Ntema and Lebogang Samson
A poetic conservation on the adventures of a poet, a creative hand, our feed and the essence of human existence.
Mambo Ntema is a Creative Artist, a self-published Writer and Poet with one poetry collection; Soul Seeds - Xlibris (2014) And Lebogang Samson is a passionate Creative artist.