No Longer A Secret

This poem is also part of my English Studies class...but it's on the depressing theme of war and death....sad giler wei...not the original poem dat we analysed, but also the whole idea of war...to hell wit wars la..


Down the torrid paths
Of rough sand
They wobble by
Indisposition, vex rules

Grievances falling on deaf ears
They said it out loud
As you might think
But alas!
Who would have known?

The heart screams
In anguish, fury!
The truth lies therein
But what to say?
Whom do we run to?

Down the ever torrid paths
Of rough sands
They wobble by
But no, sapient sortilege
Now rules
"Our kismet is no longer a secret"

An Interesting Encounter

I composed this poem as part of my English Studies class...moi peberet subject...the theme: RACISM..so...amuse urselves la k..=P

Pound, pound
I knock on the heavy oak
Waiting anxiously
I carve a pattern with my loafers
Of polished, the respectable colour of brass
Ah what a sight...
The door creaks open
"Yes?" the imploring, curious eye
Oh no, I did not mistake that
"Good day, it has come to my knowledge,
I smiled, "...that you have decent lodging
At your premises, ma'am..." I let my voice trail
As her curiosity visibly deepens
"Ahm...yes, I MIGHT have...you ARE African, are you not, mister?"
Still as a fort, I pause and arrange my words
With dear care, I start
Not an ounce less of forte and eagerness
I smile; "Why, yes ma'am...
I was born right here in good ol' England, though.."
Her eyes widen a little then shrinks
Her gaze trails up and down my 6-feet figure
And she snaps up a stern expression
"I'm afraid I already have a tenant-in-waiting
For the house
I'm in a bit of a rush now, sorry for the inconvenience
Have a nice day"
And the oak creaks shut, right at my face
Washed upon by disbelief, utter
Staring at the intricate carvings
The odd rose plant with thorns
Strangely, related
I stare down at myself
Anything inappropriate? Indecent?
Or by speech, rude slang marred?
Ah
It dawned finally...
I was African.
Still am.