Mother
By Afegbua Shabban

Innocence blinded by youthfulness did not allow me to see your worth when I was growing up

Mother
You were my doctor, my nurse
You were teacher, my maid
You were my cook, my servant

Oh mother
You sleep only when I am asleep
You only eat after I have eaten
You bath only when I have bathed

Mother
I am sorry for so many sleepless nights I caused you
Am sorry for the countless tears you shared because of me
I am sorry for the emotional turmoil I made you go through

Mother
You are happy whenever I am happy
Your smile is like the beauty of a blossom orchid flower
Your forgiven heart is as pure as that of an angel
Your perseverance germinates hope

My mother
You are my inspiration
You are my pillar
You are truly, my mother
Thank you for every thing



Africa
Afegbua Shabban

Africa, the land with the richest soil
The land endowed with the finest mineral gift to man
The land of spiritual heritage

Africa, the place where civilization originated
The place where impossibility is nothing
The place where creation began

Africa, the home of the true man
The home of purity
The home of originality
The home of the sun
This is Africa
The home of the blacks

Africa, my home
Your home
Our home
Africa, the beginning
The end
Africa, the land of destiny
Africa, the home of all homes.


Afegbua Shabban is a poet residing in South Africa.

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The Christians Arrived
By Michael Lee Johnson

Salvation Army and
the Christians arrived today,
Christmas, like every other Sunday morning
feed the homeless, chasing the rats from the bathroom,
basement, kicking the dead flies out of the corner spots
where the cat used to lounge-
clean the toilet bowl, a form of revival and resurrection.
I privately pastor to these desires though I myself am homeless.
I forgot what it's like to be a poet of the cloth,
savior in street clothing with a warm home to blend into.
I watch them clamp the New Testament in one hand,
And pull a cancer stick out of the pocket with the other.
It's all a matter of praising the Lord.
Everything is nonsense when you're in a place where you don't belong.
Even praying to Jesus from a dirty dusted pillow seems strange and bewildering.
Someday I will walk from this place and offer spare meals by myself to others;
feed the party in between the theology, the bingo of sins and salvation.
I forgot the taste of a Stromboli Sandwich with a 6 pack of Budweiser
with or without the Chicago Bears--it would make every Sunday a Salvation
Army holiday.
Today is a fairy creating miracles from the dust of the floor
multiplying fish and chips, baked ham, ribs with sauce Chi-Town type,
dark color of greens and veggies tip me to the Christian
clock on the wall peeking down on lost and unsaved.
I feel like a fragment.
A birth date the way again to begin, fragmented.
Pinto beans mixed with graffiti fingers,
Christians arrived on Christmas day-
they always do every Sunday morning.
I pastor to these desires.
It's all a matter of praising the Lord.
The Christians arrived today.


Mr. Michael Lee Johnson lives in Itasca, IL, after spending 10 years in Edmonton, Alberta Canada during the Vietnam War era. He is a freelance writer, and poet. He has been published in USA, Canada, New Zealand, Australia, Scotland, Turkey, Fuji, Nigeria, Algeria, Africa, India, United Kingdom, Republic of Sierra Leone, Thailand, and Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. Michael Lee Johnson is a member of Poets & Writers, Inc and Directory of American Poets & Fictions Writers: http://www.pw.org/. He is a member of The Illinois Authors Directory. Illinois Center for the Book: http://www.illinoiscenterforthebook.org/directory.html He has published 145 poems in 2007 to date. He is the author of: The Lost American: From Exile to Freedom. http://www.iuniverse.com/bookstore/book_detail.asp?isbn=0-595-46091-7. The book is also listed at Amazon.com, & Barnes & Noble. Book review: http://www.compulsivereader.com/html/index.php?name=News&file=article&sid=1777 Visit his website at: http://poetryman.mysite.com