Voices For Africa
In light of the horrible events unfolding in the Sudan today, and now in Kosovo as well, a number of poets and writers from around the world have come together to voice their protest against the terrible things being done to the unhappy residents of Darfur, Western Sudan, and now to Serbian Christians in Kosovo by their Islamic neighbors.   We also very much regret the many similar happenings of this nature all across this unhappy continent, Africa -- Somalia being another example as well as now in Europe.  We hope for peace.  It is unfortunate that Serbs killed off so many Moslems a decade ago, but that does not justify the ethnic cleansing now happenig in Kosovo, nor the destruction of historic landmarks.
SING  LADY
           by Val Magnuson

Across the room she came,
the feathered Kwanzaa queen
walking through clouds and
rainbows
into some noonday dream
sing lady-

of  border crossings
from sunshine lands
those portraits in blue sailings
and your flocks
wing to wing chainings
with Captain Midnight
and his boat flyers
over one way waves
sing lady-

spread your tatterings
paint portraits of sages and slave runners
those reflections
of nudes descending
into towering cities
and their prostrations
and frustrations-
play some audio dna
of how life is so beautiful in america
sing lady

of the neo head
tell of the candidate for peace
that King man with rainbow sky
that ball of fire
who gave light to mountains
and had his own dream, stamps!
sing lady

of how we love america
that cosmic adventure
even if you're from canvas city
sing its resume

Val Magnuson  Copyright 2004
       (http://ValmMagnuson-com.com)

Click here to add text.
AFTER SHE SAW THE CHILDREN HACKED BEFORE HER
                                  by Lynn Lifshin
                                      USA   Copyright  2004

                                           

she slid under the bodies. Someone
came back, saw her breathing,
beat her hard and left her to die
but she dragged herself, she could
not use her arms, used her teeth to
dig out a potato and eat it. Some
one else took her to a barn where her
wounds filled with worms. Then
her daughter's dog came, licked them
clean. Now in court for the murderer's
sentencing she limps, her steps halting
after the 4th man hacked part of her
leg off, turned her foot backward. Will
justice bring back my children she
whispers, bring me someone to bring
me something from the market?

Copyright 2004, by Lynn Lifshin
    Possibly the most widely published poet
      in the history of the world

Not Bliss

by Stazja McFadyen, Usa
  (editor/publisher of Map of Austin Poetry e-newsletter)


Ink rubs off the newsprint
staining my fingers.
Current events
get under my skin.

Children, less than old enough
to bear descendants,
bear arms against their masters' enemies.
To madmen, everyone is the enemy.

Foiled children, forced to witness
Father's execution, Mother's rape,
Baby Ashraf's, Baby Wu's,
Baby Magdalena's mutilation.

Facts I do not want to face
but cannot turn away,
knowing unawareness
is not innocence.

     Copyright, 2004 by Stazja McFayden,
       USA


CATTLE AND HOLY COWS
Sara L. Russell, 26th April 2004

Allah approves farming of infidels,
Or so it seems, out in Western Sudan,
Women are raped near burned-out citadels,
By men who twist Allah's celestial plan.
Wounded and childless, homeless, widowed now,
They see their children sold in slavery
And wonder at what unknown holy cow
Endorses disregard for sanctity.
Mankind's modernization, highly-prized,
Seems meaningless beyond banality;
Sophisticated - not yet civilized,
While yet prevails such cold profanity.
Old gods stand speechless; tribalism reigns
Where holy words echo through empty brains.


NOTES [on this sonnet, Western Sudan and the old malaise of tribal violence]:

Humanity has become more sophisticated without becoming more civilized - there is still looting, burning, torture - all manner of warfare, to this day, for the same old reasons of tribal territory and religion. Only now we can do it more quickly, on a larger scale. Some call this civilization; I call it monkeys with nukes.

So here we are, finding ourselves at the top of the food chain, yet stupidly preying on each other - and all the while we are being defeated by something much smaller and more deadly: super-bugs. It would be better stop all senseless killing and do something for mankind as a whole - start looking for cures. At the same time we could look for something more realistic than the old "love each other" hippie philosophy. We could simply start with mutual tolerance. Less immolation, more communication.

Sitting round a negotiating table may not seem as exciting, to young men, as sneaking around with bombs and guns. But it probably gets results more quickly than any war. Unfortunately however, as demonstrated in Western Sudan, there are still savages and barbarians at large... probably using the word "war" as an excuse for spreading their seed through the female populace wherever they invade, and killing off the men, to ensure their own dominance. The occurrence of this type of savagery remains unchanged since primeval times.

Sara L. Russell, 26th April, 2004.
    (England - Editor, Poetry Life And Times)
O PEERLESS MAN
       by Mary Louise Shirley Vaughn Hopson
                               Iowa, USA

Black Ivories, sons of the African Dawn,
Some places the rivers flow calm,
Why do you swim, still, in dark waters,
Sinking back down into the abyss, long ago,
Dredging up so much and so much?

O fierce warrior whose strong frame
Crossed the Fatherland  trading sagacity,
Fusing so much and so much...

Soon tribal chieftains laced with greed,
Their partners in trade, woven alike,
Garbed in Souks, tongues Ishmaelitic,
Bartered with a kiss prized tribesmen,
Adept, exchanged for trinkets,

Tricked, trapped, names lost,
Shackled in smooth cloth,
Cast into ships that sailed to and fro
Upon the turbulent high seas
Spewing so much and so much...

When strong shouts met with lashes
Rendered by the hands of Masters
Suited up for the journey
Conquering so much and so much...

While stepping up the trade in pride lost
Reason crippled with dread,
The chant of villagers captive, quieted
By the churning of the waves,
Silencing so many and so many...

O descendants of Black Ivories.
Sons of the African night,
Still caught in the undertow,
Submerge this vessel of grappling iron, unmoved,
An anchored trap waiting! Waiting!
Luring aboard so many...for so much.

Copyright, 2000 by M.L. S.V. Hopson

A Child's Epitaph

By Michael Burch (Copyright 2004)
                    (USA - Editor of The Hypertexts.com)


I lived as best I could, and then I died.
Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.



Neglect

What good are tears--
can they spare the dying their anguish?
What good -- our concern
to a child sick of living, waiting to perish?

What good--the warm benevolence of tears
without action,
the eloquence of prayers,
or a pleasant benediction?

How many children will die
with swollen bellies
consumed by flies,
their eyes too parched to cry?

I hear the faint lament
of souls departing,
mournful and distant.

How easily we could have saved them,
how pitiful our effort,
how fatal its effect.

If they died, then surely we killed them,
if only with neglect.



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Devaluation of Life (Part 2)
                    by Debashish Haar, India
                           Editor, Mystic East Anthology

This prison was constructed with bricks of freedom
  Where tortured love is paraded, naked like a prostitute,
    Where trust is violated and light wanders for a home,
       Where curtains gather fresh creases in blood and white...

No, this is not a kingdom of oil!
   Nor a garden of gold!
     This is a place where blood is de-colored in soil,
         This is a place where hatred is an art bought and sold.

A place where freedom is looted, ‘coz there’re no pearls or gem-stones,
  A place where women and children are sold
     For the price of their kidneys and bags of bones
       A land praying for a dry and fissured sky to fold.

Champions of freedom have so far overlooked this dung-heap;
One day air ‘ll ignite and turn life into oil, and so they wait and weep.

Copyright©2004  Debashish Haar
The Arrogance of man
                 by  David Taub, U.K.
                               Editor of Poetry e-Motion

Who deem to dole out rules and 'roles' -
and limit those whose
only failing strength
is to 'submit' ...
To tear apart the lands and lives
'fertile grounds' and 'humble wives'
in argument of 'betterment'
as they see fit ...
Who's 'structuring' - 'improvements' (not)
drive to 'better' - (better what?!)
A dizzy pace (no sense of shame)
Their victims - women, land (- their 'game')
Then those who struggle with their 'wealth'
compromised world's failing health ...
Their questionable realism
i question with a cynicism
that they defend - "Ha! Idealism)
Forgive me - is this 'Sanity'?
as arrogance chokes
humanity ....

Copyright ©© February 1997 David Taub
Sheltered Life
         by Michael Bugeja, Director and Professor
                      Greenlee School of Journalism                                         and Communication
                                          IA State University  
                                            Ames, IA , USA


I cannot ponder genocide. I am
Witness only to the word that cannot
Clothe or soothe or shelter the afflicted--

My feeble privileged life, which would comfort
If it could, but failing that, is testament
Silent as a prayer to some unseen power.


Copyright, 2005, by Michael Bugeja
Inshallah: Bullets for the Prophet

                            by Joseph Armstead
                                       U.S.A.

They are hungry for Heaven.

God looks down,
past spinning spy satellites,
past secret weapons platforms,
past invisible frequencies masking
covert intelligence transmissions,
down through ash-filled clouds,
past the screeching jet fighters,
past the phalanxes
of incoming rockets,
down upon the parched plain,
upon timelost ruins,
the tombs of kings,
and sees blood and misery
in the grim faces
of his stoic children.

It is not good.
It is not just.
The path to the gates
of Heaven
is not paved with
spent shell casings.

They are hungry for Heaven.

Once heart of ancient
Nubian Dynasties,
now the largest nation
in the Motherland,
Once home of the Cushites
in the Middle Kingdom,
forever bisected by the winding Nile,
where Muqurra, Alwa, Meroe, and Sawba
saw the rise of Christian Nubia,
now the site of massacres at DarFur
in a very uncivil war where
the Names of God are
interchangeable
with the names Kalashnikov,
Heckler and Koch, Colt,
and Smith & Wesson.

It is not good.
It is not just.
The Gates of Heaven
are festooned
with barbed razor-wire
and the paths of devotion
and of righteousness
are a minefield.

They are hungry for Heaven.

God looks down
upon this maddening
Feast of the Hateful,
and sees a future made black
under the bodies of the dead
and the dark light
from tortured souls
sold into slavery and shame.

Blinking back a tear,
God turns and looks away.

The hungry fall into
a fitful sleep,
souls starved,
Heaven's banquet denied.


--- fini ---

copyright © Joseph Armstead 2004

ART LESSONS

by Debbie Dembinski and Mike Wilson
            Copyright April, 2004       USA

In the gallery’s light
we speak quietly.
Paintings flaunt their textures,
more bold than we
who hold a palette
and hesitate to pick up a brush.



We who march
because we don’t know
what else to do,
who long for love to be free .
know the depth of death.



In a world
rampant with hatred
we resist hitting back,
cry out in frustration:
It makes no sense.



In the gallery’s light
we, the conflicted,
speak of darkness
as if those who hate

are created on a different canvas.
Rwanda
         by Conrad Geller
               Mt. Kisco, NY, USA

Hard to imagine what there was to fear
On such a night, like any other night,
Hot, with the heavy air so still it seemed
Waiting for mystery or sweet delight.

Hard to remember what there was to feel
With all the noise, in all the fire and smoke,
The holy silence on the following day
With which the empty, smoldering streets awoke.

Hard to discover what there is to say,
Feeling gone, anticipation lost,
Hope trivial, while in our hands we hold
Only the remants of a holocaust.

Copyright, 2005

Conrad Geller
19 Spencer St.
Mount Kisco, NY 10549
tel:914-666-7105
email: cgeller@post.harvard.edu


Oh hope!
         by Bhuwan  Thapaliya
                         Nepal

                                    Oh hope! Thou secreted peace
Or cavernous anguish
Is there no nomadic course of elegance
That leads away from thee
No circuit sage of all the path
Descried by cunning men
To cringe thee of thy sacred prey
Advancing to thy den
So give me back to death
The death I never feared
Except that it deprived of thee
and now, by life deprived
in my own grave I breathe
and estimate its size
Its size is all that Hell can guess
and all that Heaven was
Still own thee
Still thou art
What surgeons call alive
Though slipping -- slipping I perceive
The destiny of my destined dreams


Copyright 2003 Bhuwan Thapaliya

DANGER IN THE MIST
            
               by  Roger Worley, aka The Quill
                            Editor:  The Poets' Porch. USA

Beneath an upside down,
outrageous looking Borba tree,
an ancient lion takes refuge from
the grueling sun
of the African
wilderness.

As he yawns and brandishes his
off-yellow tail, living the life
of "Riley"...
A hundred miles away
other "humanoids"
of nature’s domain,
attempt to claim
the throne of the king
by endeavors which
are more barbaric
than being mutilated
by the claws of the
dozing king.

(C) The Quill 2004
"Bilad as Sudan” Arabic for “Land of the Blacks”
                   by Helga Ross
                               Canada

Africa, cradle of civilization,
uncivilized beyond understanding,
cries, bleeds, dies: we humanized do nothing.
Blood floods Black Sudan, the drowned great nation;
Nubia’s past, Aswan Dam’s foundation.
An Islamic tide with no withstanding?
Rape and carnage twist Allah’s commanding:
Genocide, a tribe’s annihilation!
Bony being, bloated belly – Baby!
Old-age tiny size, your huge tear-dried eyes
plead your plight while we scarce can bear the sight.
Yet we see and see tide of refugee
we’d stem if we would stop the spurn of sighs;
make mankind, not power, not greed, our fight.

copyright © Helga Ross 2004

Heaven: The Legend
           By Carmen Ruggero
                          USA


It came to me in a dream,
in the instant,
between awake and asleep.

I saw God’s angels.
Saw them spread their golden wings,
and soar across the blue,

I saw them smiling,
their hair flying to the wind,
resting on luminous white clouds.

I heard their shining voices
rise to the Father
in heavenly praise; yes Him

who created man, and woman
to bring forth the fruit of their love.
For that’s how He saw eternity:

Through human passion, unending,
repeating the blessed cycle of life.

Then I heard their voices falter,
discordant, harsh; I turned to see
their faces crumble, their wings a cinder.

The heavens darkened,
and from the earth below,
jet black speared through the clouds.

I opened my eyes; it wasn’t a dream.
I was in hell, breathing its terror.

The faint voice of a child:
“Our Father…… please?”
And then there was silence.

Carmen Ruggero @2004

Western Monkeys
          by Ian Thorpe, Scotland
              Copyright, 2004

We hear no evil, see no evil:
Its their culture, we do not understand.
We beat ourselves with righteous guilt
for the evil trade of long dead men
yet stand aside, permit the femicide
some long held tribal prejudice demands.


The hand that rocked the cradle of mankind,
the breast that stilled the hungry infant's cries
must bear the burden of the grown man's rage
and envy of the womb's deep silent power.
The knowing man, with beast still deep within
knows less than beasts we clamour to despise.

From Abraham down through Africa,
a journey on a road in time and space
has brought us little way along the path
that leads to our reunion with the gods.
Defile the seed and taint the future breed?
Black or white, are we not enough the same.

The violated woman never knows
what evil dwells within her silent shame.
Her cries carry no economic weight.
"What can we do, they never help themselves?"
As mercy dies Western Monkeys shield our eyes,
take refuge in wealth, accept no blame.

               Copyright 2004, Ian Thorpe


"Soldier Boy"
            by  Griffin Irving, USA

Dazzling - Time
A revelation - Details
Best new show - The Guardian



Barefoot boy in army fatigue
masquerades as a soldier
in random time-lapse tragedy,
preparing for his memorable
wide spectrum scream
and falls again like a feather
until the director's cut.

Behind closed doors
sit the Smiths,
the boy's death a dream
on their big new screen
which they watch
from the comfort
of their couch -
eating ice cream.


Griffin Irving
Copy right 4-29-4

Africa Dances
             by David Summers,  USA
                    Editor, Hadrosaur Tales

She glides around the dance floor,
dressed in a resplendent gown of lush
forest, sere desert, and luxuriant veldt-land.
Africa's gown gives life to an abundance
of creatures.  Those lions, hyenas, elephants,
and even humans, in turn, are Africa.

Africa doesn't dance alone.  With her
are Eurasia, Australia, and the Americas.
Tragically, all suffer as the dance proceeds.
Like a cancer, certain humans destroy other
humans heedless of balance.  Unlike a
cancer, humans have the power to stop.

Humans can choose to pursue quests other
than power and money, or they can choose
to consume one another until every last one
is gone.  Either way, Africa and her friends
will continue their dance, relieved that the
music is, once again, harmonious.

--David Lee Summers
       Copyright, 2004
Two Hands
         by Larry Tilander
                      Canada

One hand holds a dagger.
One hand loosely clutches sand.
Two hands, you could not tell apart
In one divided land.
Two hearts One heart is beating fast.
One heart has beat its last.
The sand falls from a dusty hand.
One life is in the past.
One million turn away; don't care:
So many in despair.
They're strangers in dusty land.
There is no profit there.
Two hands, one cold and stiffening,
The other wet with sweat.
Two hands. They should be clasped in love.
Don't let the world forget.

Copyright, 2004  by Larry A. Tilander

Victim of an African Regime
              by  Susan Cook-Jahme
                             South Africa

Cruel eyes of tormentors,
Rapturous, unblinking,
Festering with hollow insanity
Through blood smeared bars
Of her padlocked confine.

Erratic hours of electrode pain,
Torturers wielded clubs and rod-irons,
Now intimate with her dampened places,
Humid musk of fear ever present,
Blanketing, permeating stagnant air.

Within the shadows of her soul,
She clings to life upon a thread,
Belief in her ideal, her country’’s future,
Freedom for her fellow man,
No longer choked by a despot’’s shroud.

Rough hewn, young-old, she sits
In bare breasted silence,
Carved into an ebony tomb,
Pain wracked, proud……
Washed by intermittent time.

Whilst mist clad silks
Slip softly, silent,
Protective……
Over weather worn, broken limbs,
Bruised blue in gentle morning light……


Susan Cook-Jahme©© Copyright 2003
Page 2, Voices for Africa
A Torturous Dance
          by Susan Feather
                      Des Moines, IA   USA

Not a National Geographic special
Not a celebration of tribal life
These lines pound a keening verbal
Protest of Sudan's genocidal strife.

Susan Feather , Copyright, 2004
       .


Please Lend Me A Pen
      by Abdi-Noor Haji Mohammed
                      Somalia

A WOMAN WEEPS IN THE SANDY PLAINS OF AFRICA.

I WAKE UP BEFORE THE DAY BREAKS
I COLLECT WATER, FETCH FIRE WO0D
I CLEAN THE POT. I COOK YAMS
I HAVE MY SWEAT DRAIN IN THE HEAT
I LIT FIRE FROM WITHIN STICKS
AS I FAN THE SMOKING EMBERS
TEARS OF PAIN FILL MY EYES

I HAVE TWO MEN IN MY HUT
ONE IS MY LITTLE BABY BOY
OUT OF RAPE HE WAS BORN
THE OTHER IS A BRUTE. A RAPIST
HE KILLED MY BELOVED HUSBAND
HE TOOK OVER EVERYTHING WE BELONGED
HE MADE ME HIS ILLIGITIMATE WIFE
HE IS THE FATHER OF THIS CHILD

OH HOW SAD TO SHARE THIS STORY
MY SON'S DAD DESTROYED MY LIFE
IF I LOOK AT THE BABY I SEE LOVE
IF I LOOK AT HIS FATHER I FEEL PAIN
IN BETWEEN THESE TWO MARGINS
I HAVE A PAGE TO WRITE MEMOIRS
PLEASE LEND ME A PEN

Copyright, 2004  by Abdi-Noor Haji Mohammed

What is this world that we've so changed!

                                by Emanuel Seafont
                                                             (New Zealand)

What is this world, that we've so changed,
Where it's common place, to be estranged.
When your wealth in oil, or the value of gold,
Determines how your story's told.
Where the rich are poor, save, their material things,
While millions starve, and their children bring,
In search of food and comforting,
Is it not for them, that church bells ring?
Gilded altars, private pews,
Final demands, to pay your dues.
And the poor stand in their thousand queues,
So we turn away, when they're on the news.
It's upsetting this, to see them so,
We've worked hard for all we have you know,
It's their fault they've nothing more to show,
Not ours they've been struck another blow.
New hospitals, and health farm trips,
Where the rich can go to get new lips,
Manicured finger tips,
And control their weight with tummy clips.
To have the fat sucked from their thighs,
Or the bags removed from beneath their eyes,
While another peasant child dies,
And politicians tell more lies.
Build new churches, praise the Lord,
The desperate drink from filthy gourds.
Not even poets can find the words,
As the poor are driven into herds.
What is this world that we've so changed,
To go through life, and feel short changed.
Might it be, that we're all deranged.
What is this world that we've so changed?


Copyright 2004, by Emmanuel Seafont
Black Mother
by Shaun Hull
Indialantic, Florida USA

the white of day stains your painted dress
the black of night turns razor sharp
feet that wear flaming coals…a soul that bleeds
outside and in
where trees bear crimson fruit
as roots full bore hypocrisies drill so deep
to dig her earth…still plough the surface
clinging vines of apartheid
how much she suffers…raped and ravaged
again and again
strijdom…malan…verwoerd
names that stain her southern land
g7 dead zones from 48
and cape town clearings with
sharpeville apologies still segregate
now die…and die…and die
let us awake by fate arise
her friends of earth minstrels of life
to cast a new play we sing for the future
we move for the past
to turn now in loves instance
an old face anew name
an old shadow anew form
seeds to grow into who she is
whom she shall be
white sister…black brother
white father…black mother
African Heart
South African Soul

©shaunhull-a.r.r., 2005
shull.fl@gmail.com
http://www.soundclick.com/shaunhull