These words are written on the 'Writer's walk' outside the Sydney opera house. They stopped me in my tracks. Literally

Son of Mine
- Oodgeroo Noonuccal-

I could tell you of heartbreak, hatred blind,
I could tell you of crimes that shame mankind,
Of brutal wrong and deeds malign,
Of rape and murder, son of mine;

But I'll tell instead of brave and fine
When lives of black and white entwine
And men in brotherhood combine--
This I would tell you, son of mine.

Oooh a tad nostalgic.

Our Deepest Fear
Marianne Williamson

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light, not our darkness
That most frightens us.

We ask ourselves
Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?
Actually, who are you not to be?
You are a child of God.

Your playing small
Does not serve the world.
There’s nothing enlightened about shrinking
So that other people won’t feel insecure around you.

We are all meant to shine,
As children do.

We were born to make manifest
The glory of God that is within us.

It’s not just in some of us;
It’s in everyone.

And as we let our own light shine,
We unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.
As we’re liberated from our own fear,
Our presence automatically liberates others.

Always liked this great piece

i remember one poem that we used to recite in primary school- bounce the ball by rodney bennet. poetry was fun . are kids still taught poetry?

another favourite....

Piano and Drums

When at break of day at a riverside
I hear the jungle drums telegraphing
the mystic rhythm, urgent, raw
like bleeding flesh, speaking of
primal youth and the beginning
I see the panther ready to pounce
the leopard snarling about to leap
and the hunters crouch with spears poised;

And my blood ripples, turns torrent,
topples the years and at once I’m
in my mother’s laps a suckling;
at once I’m walking simple
paths with no innovations,
rugged, fashioned with the naked
warmth of hurrying feet and groping hearts
in green leaves and wild flowers pulsing.

Then I hear a wailing piano
solo speaking of complex ways in
tear-furrowed concerto;
of far away lands
and new horizons with
coaxing diminuendo, counterpoint,
crescendo. But lost in the labyrinth
of its complexities, it ends in the middle
of a phrase at a daggerpoint.

And I lost in the morning mist
of an age at a riverside keep
wandering in the mystic rhythm
of jungle drums and the concerto.

Gabriel Okara

This one is by a wazuan on the thread I Love Traffic Jams http://www.wazua.co.ke/f...aspx?g=posts&t=7576

Who wrote this poem? Good for anti-graft war

I REFUSE TO TAKE YOUR BROTHERLY HAND

Your nails are black with dirt, brother,
and your palms are clammy with sweat
I refuse to take the hand you extend to help
I shall not join hands with you brother
for unclean hands make me uneasy
For filthy fingernails rob me of my pride.

You argue, gesticulating with your once impeccably clean and beautiful hand that, before long, it shall not matter for "everybody" is delving and digging and all shall have hands dripping with dirt
That nobody shall know what clean hand looks like and there shall be comfort in the dirty crowd and enough to eat for there are good yields when the stinking manure is well dug in with strong and bad hands in times

Are you blind, brother?
I asked how many have the sludge or the strong and bold hand like yours dug and delved Brother, the hands of many are too weak with hunger and for many the sludge is out of reach, and yet for others, the stink is too nauseating, but all have eyes and hunger fill them with dirt as they watch your fingernails fill with dirt.


I have seen hungry, envious eyes watching silently through chain-link fence.
I have seen eyes
in deep sunken sockets with anger
intently watching you.
I have seen parched mouths water with saliva, and heard the rumbling of hollow empty stomachs as they watched you feed the dog with meat from heavy yields of the city sludge.

Have you entirely forgotten, brother,
the fragrance and comfort of clean hands?
The confidence,
the peace you have when you know you'll leave no ugly smudge on the sheet?
Don't you remember the repulsion you had
when you shook hands with fat, dirty men
with their dirty clammy palms?

Let me alone brother
and from the top of the cliff,
don't offer me your dirty hand in help.
Let me trudge the long way up for the shortcuts
are solid and slippery,
your palms are clammy with the sweat of fear and your fingernails are dogged with dirt

- Mary Elizabeth Frye –
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starlight at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.

Its whispered that ours is an audiovisual generation... A generation that would much rather watch than read. True?

Almost by Ezekiel

Lord My Woman Is Talking
Oluoch Madiang'

Lord, my woman is talking
Give me four ears to hear her…

Lord my woman is talking and speaking
Give me six ears to listen to her…

Lord my woman is talking and speaking and saying things
Give me eight ears to understand her…

Give me more ears Lord.
She is saying this and that, that and this…
That I this and that she that.
Blah, blah, blah, my woman’s bleating.

Lord, she is saying that in 2004, January 4th, in the morning, at 4 a.m. I…
Lord, how does the morn of early 2004 matter today?
She is saying that I don’t listen, never give her an ear…
Lord, add me ears I share with my woman in coming years!

Lord, my woman is speaking in tongues
About hair and love, pink and lollipop, black and forest, ooh and aah;
My woman, she says Tina is a bitch and Ali is a bitch and I bitch and…
Oh Lord, more ears please: my woman is bitching!

Lord lend me ten, twenty, thirty, hundred ears
(or cut off my woman’s tongues)
Quickly my Lord, because my woman just called to say:

We need to TALK!