Skip to main content

Day after Tomorrow

There comes a time to live,
A time to thrive,
A time to die,
and a time to be forgotten.

There comes a time to protest,
A time to survive,
A time to go to jail,
And a time to be forgotten.

There comes a time to stand again,
A time to fight and lose,
A time to fear and despair,
And a time to be forgotten.

There comes a time to rise again,
A time to fight again,
A time to struggle and win,
And a time not to be forgotten.

There comes a time
- to start all over again,
A time
- when the day after tomorrow has come,
A time
- when the star of hope has risen again,
A time
- when old woes may be slowly forgotten.

There comes a time again,
A time when tyranny ends
- That time has come today,
A time when the people are free
- That hope has flickered again,
A time when betrayal is far away
- That fear has faded for now.

There will come a time,
- When hopes will fade away
And madness will descend upon us again.
But today is not that time.

Today is a time to reflect
- That the struggle has borne fruit,
A time to be happy
- That old sorrow has gone away,
And a time to rest
- And let hope guide us into the future.

To Mrs. Ellen Johnson-Sirleaf.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

She's complicated

She's complicated. She'll charm you with charts, statistics and that corporate smile. But look into those eyes, they're fiercely bohemian. She's complicated. Her chatterings seem to resonate with happy sounds, but listen with the other ear, to an unhidden lament. She's complicated. Her silences agonise, her voice echoes in her absence. And yet there is a mild dread as her name flashes on the ringing phone. She's complicated. Sometimes she's a poetess, shallow, romantic, trying to hide a sardonic, world-weary wit. She's complicated. She could be a spiteful Fury, wrath unabated, but that's just to hide the lamb-hugging girl within. She's complicated. She's an enchantress, a fool, a tyrant, a nurse, an imp, a priestess, but she's generally a good friend. She's complicated. Published in Making Waves - A Poetry Anthology , ed. Pam & Bill Swyers; Swyers Publishing 2011. ISBN: 978-0-9843113-6-1.

Nellie, 1983

Very often the sun rises in warm, golden rays on opening buds, birdsong and dewdrops, and the stench of stale death. Very often the sun rises Upon mutilated men - blood drying over their eyes and gore-caked machetes rusting in their abdomens. Very often the sun rises over hyaenas fretting over the carrion going waste - they can eat no more, nor can the vultures. Very often the sun rises on a day already defeated - shrieking, screeching, screaming, demanding that it go back for there was peace in the night. Published in Tranquil Muse 2018.

To the piece of orange peel in my bag on the trip to Janjira,

You were the only one to stay by my side when all others Had left me to travel that final stretch homeward alone And while I had to throw you away after two days Because of the stench that made me put the bag in the wash And earn mother's censure onto which she piled older grievances You did help relive some happy memories of the sea breeze And the boatmen's chatter and the old bronze cannons’ roar And cope with those whose IQ is less than yours And taught me that I was mortal in that ride across the creek And that like you I too shall one day be stripped of my essence And confined to the dustbin of humanity I miss you, orange peel Published in Lakdi Ka Pul - II The Poetry Bridge 2017 — an international anthology by Twin City Poetry Club