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LOCKDOWN – A Poem

FREE YOUR MIND

Prophet of doom
In gloom
High on a broom
Possessed by the moon
You bemoan
You aren’t enslaved goon
Neither 5G’d buffoon

You rave
You own a cave
For free will
Thy will
Shall be done as you will
You might as well
Write your will

Dig your grave
It’s a time game
Your thoughts aren’t the same
Your feelings aren’t tame

Take your time
Your freedom is prime
For crime
Warning bells chime
Could save you a dime

It’s a no-end-game
Your logic is lame
Driving in the wrong lane
Is a death game
For the infame
Ignorance unframed
Self-destruction uncaged
Soul encased

Burial to erase
You from the race
For collective survival grace
There’s no grief
Your mind is grave
No peace in the grave
Your demons are brave
Your dark side can’t behave

In the horror that’s your head on a stave
For your face
In a trance
Everyone is a nutcase
Everything is a disgrace

You persist that the system in place
Seeks to replace
People liberties with acquiescence
In dissonance
With your sense
Of egotistical existence
Your disappearance
Equals good riddance

For once
Shut your mouth
Declare your
Four-square-metres of safety
Around you
Close your eyes
Form your
Space of solitude
Inside eight cubic metres of
Six mirror’ surfaces

Open your eyes
See the many facets of
You
Your potential
And that is only
The-visible-to
The naked eye

Inside of you
Is the power
That made God
To say the least
Fear not thyself
Fear ye not the unknown

No need for anger
No need for confusion
No need for despair
No need for panic
No need for prejudice
No trepidation
No end of the world imminent

Cleanse your hands
Create similar spaces
For your loved ones
Your neighbours
Your fellow beings
Merge the best
Of your reflections
See how larger than life
You all are together as one
Against
Devious intentions
By the contentious
They call it solidarity
You have a future to groom

No need to abuse
No need to bully
No need for conspiracies
No need for estrangements
No need to hate
No need to lie
No need for suspicion
No need for others’ blood in your hands

Mirror reflections are science
It’s called physics
In times of uncertainty
Chaos reigning high
Broken mirrors pieces
Reflect
Lights of possibilities
By their numbers
In all directions
Angles and curves
Have no fear
There’s always an answer

Lockdown
Open your mind
Do right things right
Reflect on your life
Reflect on your place on earth
There is always an answer
It’s only a matter of time

Polish mirrors in your head
Let science work
Like it took man
To the moon
And back
Alive
Mars is next

Lockdown
Unleash your fantasy
Cure your myopia
Pandemize your phobia
Vandalize claustrophobia
Vitalize your inertia
Recall your Utopia
To your euphoria
Today
END
©Simon Chilembo 14/04-2021

SIMON CHILEMBO
OSLO
NORWAY
Telephone: +4792525032

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©Simon Chilembo 2020
Project management

DO POOR BLACK MEN EVEN CRY?

Inspired by: Lynching Black Men

©Simon Chilembo,  09/ 12-2012

©Simon Chilembo, 09/ 12-2012

I had first picked it up in his voice on the phone. Calling him from Oslo at his work place in Pretoria about once a week in the latter part of the 1990s, I could hear him sounding ever more tired each time we spoke. He would of course express tremendous delight upon hearing my voice, proudly shouting to his colleagues,  “My son is calling from overseas!”

When I last saw him Easter time 1996, he was as charming as ever. But he was beginning to look a little frail. And it seemed he had stopped caring too much about his hair, which he always groomed immaculately before, dying it pitch black constantly.

I was just beginning to find my way around in Norway at that time myself, and coming home to Welkom that Easter, I had bought presents for everyone. I even paid for renovation work on the family house, buying some nice furniture for my mother as well. Better times had arrived. Let’s celebrate.

Pappa would be fine, I thought. At age 63 then and still working in Pretoria, I felt it was, indeed, time for him to retire, come home, relax, and enjoy life. I would do every thing possible to ensure that my parents have a good life all their days. But my ever-resilient Pappa went back to work. His work was his life. Little did I know that it would be two years later the next time we meet again after the Easter holidays, 1996. He would be in an abattoir-like city council mortuary, lying supine in a coffin; eyes open wide, staring into oblivion. The autopsy cut sewed up ugly, unbefitting a once most elegant gentleman. In the end, we are just things, I thought … (Continued in the book: MACHONA BLOGS – As I See It. Order Simon Chilembo books on Amazon)


Simon Chilembo
Oslo
Norway
March 08, 2013