Untitled…(Sonnet 2)

When Afrika is seen not heard

All mothers mewl for they are so

With Afrika portrayed absurd

A father’s place is soon let go

While Afrika by fools is tamed

That brother hunts for joy with lead

With Afrika her pluck contained

See masters who with string are led

But none like I cry foul when taxed

Nor turn our backs in rush of gold

Our vigour on this path shan’t lax

Nor on its own like banking fold

So Afrika fear not old friend

Reality is yours to bend.

Thabiso Nkoana©2013-04-23

Untitled… (Sonnet 1)

A canvas high and felt traced tips

With background broad and tint azure

None posed in space with limbs being clipped

The sketch of liberty one saw

When pillars then in holes are tucked

Sore eyes in Gaya’s comfort seek

While plumes of sentiment are plucked

Love lingers on in love’s mystique

Time let the warble low to swoop

And beak like marble gloss to shine

Thoughts flicker on life’s endless stoep

In tandem with the sun that mimes

That morn when words and wheels are cleansed

 Found true and veiled in mortal condensed.

Thabiso Nkoana©2013-04-22 

The Mowbraians of the South.

There is a tale told by Mowbraians of the south, a spirited people with an innate hunger for knowledge.  It is the tale of The Uncle and The Alc.  The Alc had long been a close confidant of The Uncle, having seen him through his unpleasant divorce; the loss of his love life, his menacing narcotic rehabilitation, his stint beneath St. Andrews street, through it all The Alc had been close to his heart.  To cure headaches in the mornings and warm the back at night, to grease the tongue in the evenings and cool the chest at noon, The Alc was there.  One morning The Uncle asked why The Alc had been so loyal?  Even though The Uncle had on many occasions turned his back on The Alc.  The Alc smiled a bright and wry smile, shook his body and took of his hat in an elaborate display of swagger and sighed, “I own you.”     

Thabiso Nkoana©2013

Untitled… (Sonnet 17, Q9)

Is there a way to veracity

not laden with malicious snares?

Is the endeavour for honesty

one the minority has to bear?

Does the superlative umpire

know the extent of imperfection?

Senses forever fuel desire

feebleness yields a failed election.