A Great Day: Africa’s Soul on Display

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I went to a small rustic art museum in Kenya with a friend and I was simply delighted. It was a bit out of the way, just a small house with some really scenic vegetation surrounding it. The director is a delightful old man whose love of art and the African culture was very evident. It was called Paa Yaa Paa.

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I apologize for the really bad quality pics…but I am not a photographer and I was using a cell phone as my photo taking agent. But these are the pictures I took of some of the art work:

I intend to do a poem for a few of these pieces. If you are interested in me doing a poem on a particular piece or if you are inspired to do one yourself please post on the comment and I will post it so everyone can see. If you are ever in Kenya stop by and experience this Paa Yaa Paa first hand.

Colored History

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Our history is written in blood, the pages

stained red by the splatter of our blood

as the sound of the whip echoes

Bleached white by the bones of fathers 

and our mothers that are scattered

Cursed black like the skin so hated and

black like the hearts of those who killed

and raped us like animals, though we are brothers

 

The slavery “ended” but the memory remains

the reign of tears can not wash away the dark

stains from our hearts and our minds

cry out for the injustices of the past, present and future

the memories weigh us down as the burdens

borne by our ancestors brought them down,

we alked bowed to the ground by the weight

of our history while the world turns and turns and forgets 

 

The grass grows green and the skies remain blue

untouched by the ravages of our black bodies

by the floods of our salt, tears,sweat and blood

just as the history books remain pristine and the

black hearts of those who came before are cleansed

by the black ink on white papers and the tradgedies

that were and are, are forgotten. 

A Whisper

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The moments are mere shadows of a memory

Collecting dust in my mind like old books,

The stories only half remembered,

Slipping through my fingers like smoke

 

I can almost hear the whispers of our laughter,

The echoes of forgotten conversations

And the faint heat of the blazing infatuations

That now are only ash and dust

 

I stumble through the age old dance

Knowing the motions but not remembering

And I wonder if you can still dance

Your words with mine like before