The Song of the Pick

A wave of strong African men

Prisoners exploding with colour and song

Their picks raised harmoniously

Their ankles shackled

Prisoners exploding with color and song

Their rage and longing in lyrics

the withering warden dismisses

as the pleasant nothings of natives at work

Their picks raised harmoniously

high above the hatted head of their emaciated oppressor 

Oblivious to their power 

over him, the earth and the shackles

Their ankles shackled

The earth bleeds in anticipation

For the picks to strike down hard

For the picks to sing their song 

http://www.art.co.za/gerardsekoto/

I've only just discovered Gerard Sekoto.

Tragic that artists and important South Africans like him were kept from my school textbooks at the time. I think I'm still recovering from a pretty damaging education system. These paintings are incredible!

Energy

Father Boyce said energy never dies

Although scientists, he said

were observing some in the Russian depths of Lake Baikal

that looked to be on its last legs

Father Boyce said it hadn’t died yet though

and he didn’t think it would

So energy never dies said the priest

and he chalked an equation on the board

to put his point beyond the arguments of catholic schoolchildren

and budding unbelievers

So neither will you or I or anyone

God takes us home

God takes us home

On my scooter route to work knocked dead

some weeks back snarled a rotting dog

In death it had begun to disappear

I thought of energy and Father Boyce who must be gone by now

Red and white mushrooms popped up beside the dog

Cheerfully alive in contrast to the putrid carcass

Look Father! I screamed into my crash helmet

Angels!

Angels!