Love Poetry For Couple

won't you celebrate with me what i have shaped into a kind of life? i had no model. born in babylon both nonwhite and woman what did i see to be except myself? i made it up here on this bridge between starshine and clay, my one hand holding tight my other hand; come celebrate with me that everyday something has tried to kill me and has failed. Lucille Clifton

At 4 a.m. the barn lights go on, and we feed the cows with a slight sense of urgency. It's a holiday morning and we're trying to get done, but even on Christmas, you still have to milk the cows. We start tractors, barn cleaners and manure spreaders up, praying that nothing breaks down. And then cow by cow, the milking machines slowly leap frog their way down the barn. (you can't speed up a one speed machine) Finally, with the morning chores done we head for the house, shake off the cold, get cleaned up, and change our clothes. The guests arrive, the wrapping paper flies, then it's time for our holiday dinner. In the afterglow of Kris Kringle, while everyone else begins to mix and mingle, my best present is a 20 minute nap in the recliner. Then the clock tells us, "get back to the barn." But on this afternoon family and friends tag along. Hot coffee and adult beverages flow, as do the stories and laughter. The cows get milked and the bull starts to fly. And whe...

Scared and frustrated, Ke t�ohile batsoali, What are they going to say, When I tell them? My wallet all wet, Containing my money And my bank account cards. My Canon camera�s Lens is blurry, My Motorola leaking ink From the inside. Ke tlo kopa thuso joang, Coz I am drowning Like a dying cat. My lip balm filled with water And my smart watch not working, Manaka a eona a eme tsi! Joalo ka pelo e sa pompeng mali. Metsi. Metsi. Metsi. When I thought of my drawings, I wanted to cry, Coz those were the best Pictures I had. Ha ke nahana ho qala qalong Mosebetsi o tloba mongata. Then I cried joalo ka lesea Straight after birth. Ahhhhhhh! Tsebo Makakole is a 17-year-old high-school student from Morija, Lesotho. He enjoys photography, filmmaking, hip-hop, soccer and writing poems and stories. He plans to pursue these interests and to become a professional, multi-disciplinary artist. Tsebo Makakole

whom he looked up to, if there were poets in his head who stirred him, people who sculpt morning out of night to make life sufferable, individuals who scrap memories of strife. That�s what I asked him. It was a deliberate question, for he had to know about the origin of beauty the way a priest knows the face of God, a star the sound of a nameless world that spins like a top in a vacuum as it floats by, a star bright in its capacity to light the dark. Beauty in forms of colour, summer ushered in by swallows darting, each trailing the ribbon of its tail behind. I said to him: everything is in a poet�s nib, you know� the love everyone dreams of at night when rain won�t wane, magic that makes what�s under a child�s bed disappear with morning, a morning that is sometimes grave with concern when the sound of no one breathing comes from an adjoining room. He looked up at me, making me wonder again whom he looked up to. That year blossoms invaded summer branches, reflected in a poem I read one...

Sometimes, even after the sun has gone and street music has tired the town and stirred all the people, and there are dancers still from neighbouring villages laughing and draining their beers, I do not leave my room, a world beyond walls of words, the reason I hear darkness only when I close my eyes to pray. As a Sotho child, when it is time I must study shadows that come down the hillside like flowing blood, before making the decision to go back to my people, to the eyes of them who have been studying the world to bring it a revolution of peace, change it, according to the needs of all of us, dream everything up and then build it for generations to come, kneading its soft clay of love with hands of nature. The family at Peka, circa 1966. Khotsofalang is in the red sweater with black arms. I'm the good-looking dude in the middle.

You should never put words in sorrow's mouth but must acknowledge the ones already there, when it tells a street the secret of how far home is, the only certainty being fear, whose name and blood type are part of its life. Like when a cripple drags itself from a crowd, whispering sentences of broken limbs. Sorrow knows that. It has travelled the road to Emmaus; it is the dinghy drowning at the bottom of a sea, the Aegean, the Mediterranean; it has sailed into the devil�s face and looked back, unwilling to return. But it knows words, the feel of a heart in the mouth, when you have nowhere to go and have to still yourself against the words and worlds of others, the sorrow of midnight when a hospital bulb is your only light. Khotsofalang