Tick tock tick tock, My heart beats slowly, When when when when I feel so lonely, Inhale, exhale, My breath starts stalling, When when when when My tears starts falling.Boom boom boom boom, My head starts pounding, When when when when My thoughts starts wandering. Hiss hiss hiss hiss, My anger starts rising, When when when when My mind’s uprising.Inhale……..exhale….., My breath starts fluttering, When when when when My body starts faulting. Tick tock tick tock, My heart beats slowly, When when when when My life feels lowly.by: Tintin
Say hello to Tintin! 🙂 A very talented writer and poet, this chick is an artist in every way. With a degree in Fine art, she is also a make-up artist by profession. Proudly she’s also MY COUSIN! :D. You can find more of her poems and short stories on her blog “That Nigerian Girl“, which she hardly uses these days 😦 …. but we are working on that aren’t we Tin! 😉Until our next female guest… GO GIRL POWER!!! 😀Cheers! 😉
@29Would I stay this way, Pain in my heart, Slouch in my sway,Praying for yet another dame?@29My being long’s for another;Completion its goal,A partner to bother,Yet put smiles into her soul.@29I run the worldIn search of my ribsomeone to call my love,For her I make this trip.@29Single I still amFickle in my choiceHer dimples a plusHumming to be or not to be...
by: Seun Aduwo
Yet another talented friend, people! Say hello to Seun Aduwo who unlike my previous Guest Damian Sinton, is not afraid to give his true identity 😀 I’m sure some of you are wondering “where on earth is all the female talent?!” but not to worry, I’ll have girl power in the house PRETTY soon! 😉 (lol!) Till next time… 🙂Cheers! 😉
The ageless artist. Vicious portrayals he reveals, made with constantly evolving brushes from stone, to steel, then fire; Novel models now made nuclear.
Strokes of the brush hints the gush of red, While the steadfast patron, his ecstasy’s fed, A hate inspired vision created, The canvas drenched in gory shade.
Mangled figures, a lifeless display Unseen souls violently snatched away, The Benefactor, His fill he takes with each image portrayed.
In time we see the board wiped clean, yet moved by hatred the artist births new scene A mural of blood, flesh, sweat and tears a horrid vision, the gods to bare.
The artist, unwavering and dissatisfied Conjured by the darkness of human pride Peace and love, his art deprive. While hatred, in each heart reside.
His Masterpiece, yet unborn! A display to end all earth spawn, Thus these words I write to warn “Keep far the novel brush lest he paint the mushroom cloud across our horizon”
I miss the emotion I carried while you were here I miss the laughter and I miss the tears, I miss the worry and the fear I miss the love that we both shared.
I miss our brawls and reconciliations I miss how loving you took patience I remember how annoying you could be! I would give anything to have you now unnerving me
I miss every mood that tied me to you I miss the bad ones, but more the good Your absence leaves me feeling like I have been run through And how deep the gash you made, you will never have a clue
Tread softly I am weak, heartbroken, won’t even speak. the feeling’s gone, nothing left to lift shattered pieces, within I sift.
This ache is real, the wound will heal but it seems stupid, this audacity to feel; lessons learnt from time and in this race, powerless though, nature wills at its pace. totally damned, children of her will it’s a marvel the grip of our skill.
Tread softly I am weak ….Tell my heart never to speak
By: Damian Sinton
Damian Sinton
Meet “Damian Sinton”, an alias of course! 😉 He’s a friend and a pretty shy one, so I have edited the lovely picture you see of himself and his little angel 🙂 … Just another reminder that I’ve got talented friends 😉 😀
Her heart is poured out like streaming water, all care is cast at the Immortal Feet Eyes shut, hands clasped together, Her African figure approaches the Mercy Seat
Chocolate, porcelain skinned sister, daughter to the African earth Nappy haired diva, I pray She knows her worth
Embodiment of Soul and Spirit, queen, commoner, slave-girl alike Her brownness is “AFRICA” whether bound or free, She bears Kush’s culture; Nubia’s history
She is a cluster of many shades, Copper, Coco and Coffee; Chocolatey-milk and Ebony No matter where her birth, She remains Africa’s trophy
She bears the “Dark Continent” in her womb wherever She may be, Those child bearing hips of hers are Mother Africa’s Eternity.
Hi people!Permit me as I introduce a VERY talented young lady in today’s post. Her name is Hazel and is also known as “Maame“.Well, the heading on her blog says a lot about her: “Adorned in African beads and riding a kangaroo, I am an African Australian“. To be more direct, she is Ghanian, but was born and lives in Australia. 😉 Besides her poetry she is also an aspiring Public Health Practitioner; Her hobbies are dancing, coloring, drawing, reading and writing; She loves kids, pets and traveling.One of the many things I admire about Hazel besides her wide smile and cheerful nature is that though raised in Diaspora, she constantly holds on to her African heritage; You can even tell from some of her poems 🙂 … We communicate on Skype, and I can tell you that it is ALWAYS a thrill when we get to chatting in Pigeon English 😀 Meeting Maame on WordPress has been a blessing as I have found a friend and an online African Sister in her 😉 … I’m glad that she is very much in love with the color of her skin and the many cultures it encompasses.Below is one of her earlier pieces, which I still find very intense till this day:
Ramblings of Children in Diaspora – Binta and Yataa
Ramblings of Children in Diaspora: “War” Pa,Pa,Pa that is a noise of war. The sound of a shotgun killing the acquitted.
Ta ta ta that is a noise of war. The sound of a man’s hard leather boots. Moving across the wooden floors boards in our abandoned house.
Sh,sh,sh that is a noise of war. The sound of a young men luring innocent girls into their dungeons.
Hm,hm,hm that is a noise of war. The sound of a mother worried about the welfare of her children. As she drinks dirty polluted water after giving her children the last bottle .
Can you hear our cries? Can you picture our lives? As we run, we run as far as our swift small feet can take us. We pray as we sleep the dirt of the earth becomes a blanket. But when we sleep we can still hear the noises of war. They are a never-ending soundtrack that replays every day in our heads. As we awake from our nightmares we are forced to a life of confinement. Refugee living. Our mother died from cholera. We prayed and prayed for god to save her. But she didn’t survive. Our father shot by the soldiers and now we are orphans of war. Without parents we sit and wait for someone to take us to a distant place. As we wait,we pray. As we pray, we lose faith. Week by week.Hour by hour. Day by day. Finally we are rescued by a long lost aunty. My sister and I are taken away to the promise land. Memories of Sunday school in the village fill our minds. Surely God had remembered us like the Israelites. We thought we were going to be so happy. We love eating bread and jam, milk and chocolate cake. Truly Living life in London is a blessing But war still haunts us. We still see the soldiers who killed my father in our dreams. The rebels who defiled our lives and robbed our sacred pride. This scares us and we feel like the living dead. walking amongst the people of this cruel world.
Drip,Drip,Drip this is a result of war. I am a young child, Binta 12 years old Yet I still wet my bed every night. In fear for my life.
Shake,Shake,Shake this is a result of war. I am Yataa, A young teenage girl who cannot speak English on her first day of high school. I have been stigmatized , ostracized and traumatize. since that day I have never been the same. I find it hard to talk to strangers often get scared of the slightest noise surrounding me. I am just a small girl yet I have viewed more than most adults have ever seen. We hope one day that war will cease to exist just like our childhoods were diminished. By;Maame Afrique
Fickle in my choice Her dimples a plus Humming to be or not to be... by: Seun Aduwo
Permit me as I introduce a VERY talented young lady in today’s post. Her name is Hazel and is also known as “Maame“.
Well, the heading on her blog says a lot about her: “Adorned in African beads and riding a kangaroo, I am an African Australian“. To be more direct, she is Ghanian, but was born and lives in Australia. 😉
Permit me as I introduce a VERY talented young lady in today’s post. Her name is Hazel and is also known as “Maame“.
Well, the heading on her blog says a lot about her: “Adorned in African beads and riding a kangaroo, I am an African Australian“. To be more direct, she is Ghanian, but was born and lives in Australia. 😉
Festival King 