Poetry with an african genre
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![Page 1: Poetry with an african genre](https://reader034.fdocuments.us/reader034/viewer/2022050800/568c4e601a28ab4916a7afdd/html5/thumbnails/1.jpg)
By Christian Mowarin
poetry playbook4
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an oxygen paperback
July 2010
Christian Mowarin
Open your dream in sleep
And you will find gold patterns
Shilver in pure imagination
You will see bright lights
Run faster in your heart
You can win a race to freedom
Your mind is your rotring
Rotate with it always..
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For my mother, clara
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Save�afrika�now
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Listen�to�herOpen�her�windowsLaugh�her�sorrows�offMake�her�a�butterflyRead�her�a�bookPaint�her�a�bright�color
Connect�with�herHug�her�really�closeDust�the�speckle�off�her�tanPut�her�in�every�drivewayDrop�her�a�noteShow�her�a�new�world
Dream�with�herChange�her�handwritingTell�her�to�look�againStart�a�life�with�her�nowTell�her�Its�not�over
Smile�with�herPlay�her�a�new�songGive�her�poverty�a�large�kickBuy�her�a�red�roseMake�your�inspiration�hers�Make�her�your�best�friend
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Dance�of�terror
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I�watch�the�light�as�the�evil�passesFumes�swell�by�a�dark�black�colorLife�flash�convincingly�before�my�eyesMade�serious�by�a�cutting�edgeHurricane�and�deathlike�blowMy�feelings�begin�to�takeA�wild�life�of�its�own
My�heart�turns�drained�yellowAs�the�dainty�sword�strike�magentaCrossed�by�slain�courageNever�before�practiced�by�barbarismNot�even�our�war�raged�civilizationMy�soul�begins�to�corrugateThe�sound�drowning�my�heartbeat
Lord�i�hate�the�trajectory�terrorBut�it�wont�just�leave�me�aloneThe�mad�story�told�now�and�nextThe�dead�lies�dead�and�stay�deadPrecious�time�means�the�world�to�usOur�birthday�begins�not�to�be�our�death�dayLord�save�us�from�this�death�in�melancholy�street
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Ageless�chant
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Its�native�contour�line�passes�underneath�our�feetEvil�like�the�one�which�it�radiatesEveryone's�nightmare�for�which�its�drawnWill�it�ever�eats�us�or�leave�us�to�be
Sometimes�a�little�sticky�with�worn-out�sapSometimes�when�long�time�drawn�stay�putThe�witch�doctors�line�art�amidst�overgrown�weedOnly�he�knows�where�to�step�to�save�the�gods�wrath
Toothless�and�ageless�he�chants�most�nightsNigh�along�his�badly�dotted�circle�with�leg�akimboBlack�magic�for�a�black�prize�for�a�nightSeldom�truncated�by�knight�knives�in�the�wind
The�ogene�too�robust�in�its�clangy�clan�cryGoing�far�into�the�stills�and�monuments�of�the�nightShivers�and�shrills�torment�us�still�asWe�made�our�tired�journey�to�sleep�land
They�say�the�chant�scares�the�drought�and�breaksThe�flu�from�the�mosquitoes,�pinches�iba�from�little�onesHis�withered�fingers�claws�tuberculosis�from�old�geckosOnly�to�sometimes�resurface�in�another
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kaleidoscopeMind
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Open�your�eyes�in�blacknessAnd�you�will�see�vision�in�motionShake�in�stillnessYou�will�hear�a�rustle
Whisper�in�your�mindAnd�you�will�create�an�audienceYour�mind�is�your�playgroundPlay�with�it�always
Open�your�dream�in�sleepAnd�you�will�find�gold�patternsShilver�in�pure�imaginationYou�will�see�bright�images
Run�faster�in�your�heartYou�can�win�a�race�to�freedomYour�mind�is�your�rotringRotate�with�it�always.
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Paradise�slavelandscape
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The�setting�sun�slowlyGlide�past�as�the�rays�moveThe�shadows�in�my�roomIt's�mappings�corrugates�my�finger'sFurrow�as�it's�violet�rayPunch�holes�in�my�reflectionWhat�is�this�paradise�slave�landscape?
Been�aging�there�a�whileNear�the�open�yet�closed�shuttersDying�slowly�since�the�dayWhy�do�i�have�to�remain�unattended?What�is�it�this�fabulous�land�has�turned?What�is�this�paradise�slave�landscape?
Could�it�be�day�have�cast�An�irrevocable�spell�on�my�genre?Pulmonary�thongs�piecing�throughHopes�and�beams�who's�now�upturnedBold�hearts�in�burnt�dimensions?What�is�this�paradise�slave�landscape?
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This�genocide
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In�the�backyard�of�my�mindI�see�an�open�landscapeA�landscape�and�a�lampshadeThe�wind�has�stopped�cursingMy�mind�window�now�open
I�see�an�open�gravelandWith�all�the�blackskinned�bodiesLying�flatfaced�down�and�legs�bentOn�top�of�the�rectangular�sand�dunesI�could�see�as�fresh�as�yesterdayThis�genocide�of�spotted�dotmatrix
What�are�they�doing�nowBeckoning�to�me�in�their�tired�sleepIs�this�an�open�or�broken�invitationIs�this�a�die-up�call�orJust�a�theatre�of�death�playFor�my�own�mind�and�kind
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This�genocide2
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Lord�this�things�that�i�see�and�feelThis�spreadsheet�of�murderOur�mothers�wont�like�itIt�will�take�away�their�heart�orIs�it�mayfair�hallucinations?
Am�looking�at�you�nowAm�convinced�you�just�made�The�whole�saga�upIts�a�novelty�dreamSet�in�a�semi�urban�mindscape
You�know�you�must�wake�up�nowYou�have�to�go�to�workThere's�a�jazz�band�coming�lateI�mean�'you�cant�be�serious'Its�one�of�your�picture�galleries
In�the�wake�of�a�third�dimensionA�moment�in�timeA�moment�not�to�beIs�it?I'll�just�close�the�windowI'll�be�just�fine.
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What�have�theydone�to�us?
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What�have�they�done�to�us?These�merchants�of�human�bloodDemons�of�practical�politicsWhat�sad�tributriesThey�have�entrenched�in�usThat�leaves�no�path�to�freedomland
Every�act�unites�their�wicked�hiveA�clear�show�of�bad�photographyOf�a�shapeless�and�derailed�dreamAn�entanglement�we�must�wadeThrough�like�mutilated�zombies
What�have�they�done�to�you?This�neo-slavery�proclamationsmaggot�like�political�and�economic�plotsAll�our�once�beautiful�petalsFallen�like�slain�heroesWithered�to�the�naked�skeleton
Everystage,�a�cinematography�of�deathA�passion�we�carry�like�shacklesAnd�wounded�scales�permanently�gluedAn�abomination�we�must�wearThrough�all�facet�of�this�lost�land
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A�hole�in�the�heart
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Have�you�everFeel�a�black�holeHeavy�in�your�heartSo�deep�it�plunges�The�inner�chambersOf�your�consiousnessSo�wide�it�stretchesMiles�and�miles�in�theTexture�of�your�mind�walls�
Have�you�ever�Touch�an�emptinessDeep�in�your�heartSo�perilous��it�spawns�theCave�walls�of�your�imaginationsSo�open�it�wages�warWith�your�naked�soulEver�and�ever�in�yourCracked�model�of�your�future�life
Have�you�ever�Seen�a�lie�so�laid�downDeep�in�your�selfSo�woven�it�twistsYour�marooned�instinctsSo�told�it�maketh�truthWith�your�auraAll�in�all�in�your�Spelled�Devotion�of�real
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By Christian Mowarin
an oxygen paperback
July 2010
all rights reserved @2013