FAITH AND THE HUMAN EXPERIENCE
Very well put. Imagine a world where we are all free to express our beliefs without fear of judgement – and can respect others.
I’d be lying if I told you that I am not a religious person (and by that I mean I have a personal relationship with God) , that I don’t believe in the existence in only ONE supreme deity, that I don’t pray for all of humanity to agree that my God is the only God. And I am not alone, because a lot of people in the world probably have the same belief.
So how does this become a problem?
This becomes a problem when I think less of other people because their beliefs are different from mine. It becomes a problem when I think its not okay to be friends with and interact with people with different spiritual inclinations. It becomes a problem when I become so engrossed with my faith that I stop being sensitive to the needs of OTHER people. Needs like love, compassion, encouragement, acceptance…
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Rhythm of Africa
Dance, dance!
With the muse of Africa;
Tap, tap!
With the rhythm of Africa;
Moving your body and,
Moving your steps;
To the sounds and cultures of the various tribes in Africa.
Dance, dance!
To the rhythm of Africa;
Tap, tap!
With the movements of the muse of Africa;
To a continent of nature’s muse,
To a continent of multi-languages,
To a continent full of colours!
Fron North, South, East and West;
Come to Africa and see things for yourselves.
Rhythm of Africa,
Rhythm of various customs and cultures,
Rhythm of the various countries in Africa,
Rhythm of the animals,
With the beauty of nature as seen around.
Dance, dance!
Dance with the steps and shke your body;
To the rhythm of Africa touching your heart and soul.
Tap, tap!
With the movements of the muse of Africa;
Rhythm of Africa!
With the muse of various races in Africa;
Expressing their cultures and customs to the muse of the rhythm of Africa.
– Edward Kofi Louis
http://www.aromaticcoffees.co.uk
The Green Far Away
I stand on the tee with the ball in my hand
And look at the green far away
I decide on an iron that slides from my bag
And set the ball on the Tee
I practice my swing till it feels kind of right
Then set my club to the ball
As I club head comes down and collides with the ball
I watch it fly through the air
I think it look good as it lands on the green
A little left of the hole
The slope of the green swings the ball to the right
As the ball gets close to the flag
The ball keeps on rolling across the green turf
As the ball approaches the hole
I stand there amazed as the ball disappears
As I look at the Green far away
– Justin Time
http://www.aromaticcoffees.co.uk
Mother Africa Smiles
Africa Smiles…
As Her Captured Children’s Strength Survives
Africa Smiles…
As Her Cultures and Comportment Thrives
and As Anglo / Caucasian-Persuasion Desires
Joins Euro… To Ancient Kush and Congo Lives
In Manner and Speech and Slang and Strides
and Intergrated-Jives and New Age Styles
and Black Berry Lips of Voluptuous Size
… Yes, Mother Africa Smiles
Africa Smiles…
Covered In Coal Dust of Diamonds Pressurized
Africa Smiles…
With A Star-Lit-Sparkle, In Her Big, Dark Eyes
and Like A Milky, White Moon – Her Full Teeth Shines
Saying, ‘You Too, Will Dance The Dance of My Child’
… O’ Yes, Mother Africa Smiles
Africa Speaks…
Calling To Our Hips, Our Bosoms, Our Feet
Pounding and Pulsing – Even Strained, She Seeps
At First, Her Voice Was Soft and Weak
Then Vocal Tremor Became Tribal Deep!
Across The Earth, Her Sound Sways and Sweeps
Saying, ‘You Too, Will Feel My Heart’s Drumbeats’
And Like A Sultry Siren – Africa Sings So Sweet
Songs So Warm-Bodied and Sleek
… Africa Smiles, Singing Us To Sleep
Yet, Africa Bleeds…
Almost Bled Dry As Her Arabian Sands, Shifts & Increase
Africa Bleeds…
Even Tho’ Her Resources Are As Rich As Jeweled Sheiks
Africa Bleeds…
As Her Continental Beauty, She Struggles To Keep
Africa Bleeds…
Like Poured-Out-Souls, Inked Upon Ledger Sheets
Africa Bleeds…
Like A Slow, Boiling Passion of Lava-Flowing Heat
Africa Bleeds…
Into Far Away Fields and Neighborhood Streets
Africa Bleeds…
And One Drop of Her Blood Floods Like The Power of Seas
and It Makes Her Children Hold Out Their Arms To Reach
And At Her Tears, Her Children Fall To Their Knees
But One Day, Dear Mother… GOD Will Heal The Breach
and Teach – That Mother Africa Holds A Place Unique
And When We Remember – How We Ate Her Seeds
And Climbed Up Her Bosom Like Proud Pyramid Peaks
And Kissed Her Rivers of Glowing Sunset Cheeks…
Africa Smiles Again and Dries The Blood, She Weeps
And Africa’s Smile Will Transform The World’s Waiting Scene
Rising From Forgotten Shadows To GOD’s Garden of Peace
For When Africa Smiles All Civilization Will Greet…
Africa’s Smile
– Moonbee Canady
http://www.aromaticcoffees.co.uk
Tee Shot
Address.
Stance, grip,
settle in, shake out,
place the club head,
sweet spot kissing
the doomed ball,
a ripe plum
against the steel.
Eternity.
Doubt about
the Oppenheimer reallocation.
Eye on the ball,
a visual feast,
view the flag,
take a picture of it
with the mind,
eye on the ball.
A breeze, a frown,
left foot forward
a millimeter,
club head opened
four thousands of an inch,
the reckoning
of terrible variables.
Imagine the Masters:
“Mr Scott Davis of Fort Wayne Indiana,
you are away.”
Address.
Perfection, shake out,
wiggling hips,
exhale, the paroxysm
of tension, mind and body
crystallized.
The flag appears
as a scrapbook photograph,
the drum roll crescendo
of concentration stops.
Silence.
The Oppenheimer reallocation
was a good move.
It’s time.
The back swing,
a slow pendulum
of machine precision
rises to the twisted apex
and hovers.
The sword of Damocles,
falls slowly to release.
Scott gives it his all.
Eye off the ball.
The Oppenheimer reallocation.
Ping!
Follow through.
Angst.
There it is!
The ball is shooting straight
down the fairway
as an artillery round,
climbing to trajectory,
rising, hanging, hanging
beyond gravity,
falling, falling, dropping.
Thud.
Direct hit on the green,
rolling, rolling, stopping
ten feet from the pin.
“Yes!”
Could be better but
birdie is possible –
very possible.
Scott lifts the heavy golf bag
and soldiers down the fairway.
The sun could not
be brighter,
the sky more blue,
the grass more green,
the birds more musical.
Scott is hopeful
of birdie
on Par 3.
– Peter Kautsky
http://www.aromaticcoffees.co.uk
Africa Poem
A thousand years of darkness in her face,
She turns at last from out the centurys’ blight
Of labored moan and dull oppression’s might,
To slowly mount the rugged path and trace
Her measured step unto her ancient place.
And upward, ever upward towards the light
She strains, seeing afar the day when right
Shall rule the world and justice leaven the race.
Now bare her swarthy arm and firm her sword,
She stands where Universal Freedom bleeds,
And slays in holy wrath to save the word
Of nations and their puny, boasting creeds.
Sear with the truth, O God, each doubting heart,
Of mankind’s need and Afric’s gloried part.
– Joseph Seamon
http://www.aromaticcoffees.co.uk
Never Play Golf
In the spirit of the Masters this weekend…
I chose a fine, fresh, wonderful bright day,
purpose of which was to learn golf to play.
My clubs and my bag were sparkling brand new,
wearing my pretty, tasseled, spiked golf shoe.
Clinking and clanking strode to the first tee,
model of the sport I would seem to be.
Far in the distance a tiny flag waved,
final location my little ball craved.
I opened a pack of pretty white tees,
then I went to the ground on my bent knees.
Carefully I place my new ball of white,
teed up, ready now, for its virgin flight.
I steadied myself and had a few swings,
knew what to do, for I read of these things.
The ball was addressed and I was all set,
hundreds of yards out, I surely would bet.
Then I wound myself up, tight as a spring,
let myself go with a violent swing.
The tee I did see go flying away,
the ball on the ground, reluctant to play.
I bent to put the ball on a fresh tee,
then studied the shot and where I should be.
Ready again, my swing was a beauty,
ball, this time, did it’s reluctant duty.
Soaring through the air so high and so fast,
just hoping this sight forever would last.
Then with pure grace and a most timeless pace,
hooked to the right, to a pretty treed space.
The ball rolled with speed and then came to rest,
the next shot would be a certain fine test.
I selected an iron, number three,
this mighty shot flew from under the tree.
Into the beautiful field of soft green,
rolled off into tall grass, not to be seen.
Searching, the quest, for the pretty white ball,
awakened a snake, to me it did crawl.
Dropped then a new golf ball out in the course,
lined up my next shot and hit it with force.
Into the clear air it truly did fly,
somewhere behind me, “Fore” came with a cry.
When I awoke, up from ground I did raise,
seemed I had survived with only a graze.
There was my ball in the silvery sand,
sitting, nice and pretty, where it did land.
Took out my sand wedge, walked to the ball,
hit just behind, by the cup it should stall.
Many strokes later the sand was a heap,
finally from luck it took a big leap.
Rolling with speed toward the waiting hole,
wishing and hoping with all of my soul.
Ball gracing the flag with multiple smiles,
the battered white ball, rolled by through it’s trials.
I traveled the green by many a path,
finally retrieved my ball, did the math.
Final hole sum so incredibly high,
I doubted the value of further try.
Toting my bag, I walked to the car,
from this the first hole, it wasn’t so far.
Laying my new golf bag upon the ground,
a Lincoln backed over it turning ‘round
– Robert Gene Stoner Jr
http://www.aromaticcoffees.co.uk
A Toast To Africa
As someone who was born and raised in South Africa, I’m going to be posting some of my favourite African poems over the next few days.
Christmas, 1920
From a goblet of rarest and richest red gold,
Encrusted with jewels of value untold,
All flowing and glowing with nectar of wine,
Distilled from the spirits of souls sweet and fine
As these sons and daughters whose deeds I rehearse,
With zeal all-consuming, though halting my verse–
I drink to my Race on this epochal morn,
Remembering the Christ-child who came lowly-born,–
Was despised, crucified and rejected of men,
But now to whom honour and glory
Amen!
– Carrie Williams Clifford
http://www.aromaticcoffees.co.uk
The Meaning Of Poetry
Some poetry is never written but walked
Some ink can never paint a feeling perfectly
I mean
An evil walk of a glorified angel
Poetry walks for our hearts
We hold the power
To make sense of our pictures
Some how
Poetry is never written but experienced
No A4 can define a man’s tears
Tears of rage in a page
A tear planted by memories of a bee bite
Small bites come in bigger motives
Calculating a man’s brave height
I mean
Bees target patience hidden in our Godly given smiles
Poetry runs kilomiters to keep our ears boiling
We ignore the meaning to question the rhythm
No A4 can age a man’s real life in a page
Stage or no stage
Some poetry is far from pages close to our eyes
Eyes that see blindfolded missions before missions twist visions
But
Visions in poetry exercise telescopic sights
I mean
A software designed to keep humans away from evil sites
Poetry is a snipper rifle set in a distant light for a battle fight
The accurate placement of a writer’s thoughts speaking rights
Stage or no page
Some poetry is never spoken
Poetry speaks in tongues when hearts are broken
It does
cook words before your corrupted ovens singing changeable change
Plan and change but never change your plans
I mean
If you change your changes your meanings will change other people’s feelings
Poetry speak feelings to change life’s meanings
Lazy but words holds the power to give us strength
It’s the meaning behind meanings of a meaning
From a snipper sitting on the rooftop site of Mount knowledge
I mean
We see things beyond identity’s changes
To change directions of a deadly plan
Just maybe
Maybe poetry means
Poor
Obsevertion
Experienced
To
Re-connect
You and me
Some poetry is never written
A Queen’s voice on my poetry changes your reaction
Awakening
Concrete keys on some brains with her voice
I mean
The unseen is never seen unless the affection is heard
Clean armpits dont always smell truth in poetry
Plan your changes and never change to plan
– Raymond Ngomane
http://www.aromaticcoffees.co.uk
Resurrection
Long, long, long ago;
Way before this winter’s snow
First fell upon these weathered fields;
I used to sit and watch and feel
And dream of how the spring would be,
When through the winter’s stormy sea
She’d raise her green and growing head,
Her warmth would resurrect the dead.
Long before this winter’s snow
I dreamt of this day’s sunny glow
And thought somehow my pain would pass
With winter’s pain, and peace like grass
Would simply grow. (But) The pain’s not gone.
It’s still as cold and hard and long
As lonely pain has ever been,
It cuts so deep and fear within.
Long before this winter’s snow
I ran from pain, looked high and low
For some fast way to get around
Its hurt and cold. I’d have found,
If I had looked at what was there,
That things don’t follow fast or fair.
That life goes on, and times do change,
And grass does grow despite life’s pains.
Long before this winter’s snow
I thought that this day’s sunny glow,
The smiling children and growing things
And flowers bright were brought by spring.
Now, I know the sun does shine,
That children smile, and from the dark, cold, grime
A flower comes. It groans, yet sings,
And through its pain, its peace begins.
– Mary Ann Bernard
http://www.aromaticcoffees.co.uk
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