Ninth Poem of the Week: Forever More

Lost in a realm of pain
Lost with nothing to gain
Unsure what will happen
Will the gate ever open

As my mind told me no,
My heart said it was ok
I knew you loved me
Or so you say ?

You got to me
The way no one else could
I let you see me
Like no other should

You stole my heart
Right from my chest
And broke in two
And put me through something no one could guess

Sand below and grey around
Rain falls to the ground
Yet the sky is dry
I just wonder why

A trust that was broke
Now where does it go
Dropped to my knee
What happened to me

Giving in to you
Unsure what to do
Pieces fall to the floor
Broken
I reach for your hand
But all I find is sand


An angel I thought you were
Now I am unsure
The pain I have found
Shatters my heart across the ground

Is there such a thing called trust
Or does is blow away like the dust

Did I give in again
Did I lose it within

You said you loved me
That you would never hurt me
Staring down the barrel of gun
Trigger pulls and all undone
Endless pain
Wondering if it is true….

Even though I’m smiling
I'm breaking down inside
I'll laugh the tears away
so the pain I can hide

I'll get over you
but it will take awhile
And the next time I see you
I'll pretend to smile


Zana H Hashi
Copyright © 2009

Eighth Poem of the Week: Somebody's mother

Somewhere in the outskirts of a land unknown

Somewhere in the middle of a war zone

Suddenly the winds bring news of a season’s cold

In the sequence of events as they unfold

Is the story of a woman and her newborn untold

The stars align to form a constellation

The moon chimes in as they shine in collaboration

The wild beasts lie awake their bowls growl in anticipation

The guns and the men that carry them spread intimidation

The prayers become louder out of desperation

Every mother made to suffer humiliation

Every father made to suffer degradation

Every family member dead, left with no blood-relation

Every other emotion lost, Fear the only obligation

Everyone is devastated living in deprivation

I am just the narrator, only bring you the narration

I can only show its literal translation

I hope the words convey her every emotion

I hope one day this poem acts as a delegation

I can only hope you give a moment’s consideration

The morning sun brought with it confirmation of the isolation

The tiny tent stood alone in the centre of the cultivation

The child in her arms withers away with starvation

The sorrow fades only to be replaced by frustration

The torture she suffers is nothing short of an abomination

The suicidal thoughts in her head, an inclination

To put an end to the misery, a form of resignation

She prayed with all her heart for salvation

She prayed the prayers would reach their destination

She looked into her child’s eyes for some consolation

She suffered indignity, but that was just the beginning

She now suffers from insanity; it’s nowhere near the end

She has lost all hope in humanity, but she’s not to blame

There are millions like her that suffer the same

She stares into space and all she can do is wonder

What will it take for you to look her way and not the other

What will it take for you to even bother

By: Famo A. L

Copyright © 2010

Seventh poem of the week: Agony is my Lullaby

Black and white, mixed to grey.
Good or bad, you choose your way.
Look back in time, have you seen agony?
Children burnt, punished for no felony.
Redemption: starvation, just for another day.
Sarcasm: food waste, watch our children play.
If life is making a living rather existing.
Why are they existing to die for a living?
Survival of the fittest is not a term in any text book.
Money makes the world go round, third world shook.
Africa, my cousin told me: "Agony is my Lullaby"
Poverty, my niece can't cry, her eyes are dry.

Pen 'N' Paper
Copyright © 2010

Sixth poem of the week: Falsehood Love

I always hear the proclamation of affection, Somalia, Somalia everyone claims to love her, yet once you take a look at her, withered is her frame and structure, so bad is her vital signs that if you were fortunate to know her from way back, you would struggle to recognise her, hopeless her and her children, destitute and hunger ridden.

Like a plague victim she shunned, as her touch is diseased, only the blood of the innocent appeases her soil, yet we talk and talk while the land continues to rot and spoil, our fondness only resonates in our throats, bleating ignorance and foolishness like wild mountain goats, clashing heads for the sake of short lived bravado, while the future generations of our people live and grow under the devil’s shadow.

So let the truth be told and let me share with you what my chest refuses to hold, my people are intelligent and bold, yet religion, land and culture so cheaply we have sold, the educated seek disconnection, the ignorant seek further destruction, leavings the less fortunate in the midst of the oblivion, I am a member of millions who watch the dying with no remorse on the frontline, simply because we view true compassionate intellect as a crime.

Let us analyse briefly, we spend vast amounts of money on lavish parties in the honour of Somalia, waving flags that are worthless, wasting of materials that they are made from, all over the continent people gather and come, when thousands die each your from thirst under her sun, heavy gold chains around the necks of the women, tailored designer suits garnishing the men, such useless actions is like writing a beautiful story with no ink in your pen.

Some say such events are charitable, I am sorry but I have only seen a few coins on the table, families throw weddings worth thousands while their own family members are amongst the starving, please tell me how is this living, do we chase our own misfortune with such haste, is this what we a people of Islam have acquired in taste, a poisonous existence unmindful of the time and resources we waste.  

Offensive my words to some maybe but these thoughts are mine, I spend the day untangling that which has my mind and sight merged, my eyes are the source of the vision even when I am submerged, lost in the makings of my reason, deciphering the source of our pain, I take comfort knowing why I strain and thankful that my soul is still connected to my brain.

What we need is a conscious society, this is a must if we truly seek peace and unity, and attention to the dysfunction is the first course of action, all this talk of governance is out of place, we have women and children on the brink of death so the saving of life must be the purpose of the initial race, not propaganda and campaigns, or waving money for the vote leaving my palms with blood stains.

We don’t need to look far or wide, the illness of our people is in full view and no longer hides, let us start within our local communities our youth and our women, the grave as our final resting place, this in our actions must never be forgotten, I am not a preacher or a leader nor for either do i aspire, the lord as my witness I have but one desire, to witness my sons prostrating to him underneath the clouds that float on my homeland.

Hamza Egal © copyright 2011 all rights reserved.

Fifth poem of the week: A murderer to Womens' identity

As a woman, I will say it loud and clear: I want to be among the vivid supporters to end this! I want an end to this sicken murdering of womens’ identity. This ritual has been in existence since the time of Ancient Egypt, and has spread like a fire from Asia to my hometown; Somalia and my West African sisters endure it too!
How can I not blame by people for not being well educated on this issue; for disregarding women’s’ life? How can I forget the image of my beloved friend who died because of FGM?
How should I explain to the orphan child who her mother died?
I still remember the smell of the blood my beloved Kinsi shed in forms of tears…
Such painful tragedy will never be forgotten.
Imagine my helplessness when they snatched her away- pinned her down to the ground.
Her teary beautiful brown eyes still haunt me.
Her tears fell,
Her life stopped,
And her soul was taken away that night.
Such a horrendous practice is FGM!
Although my friend Kinsi was a strong woman, 
FGM killed her strong will,
Pregnancy made it worse.
How cruel could the world be?
The world stopped for her the day she gave birth…Oh beloved Kinsi.
She once grabbed my arm and said “ if I only knew being a woman brought along such pain, I would have refused to be one.” She continued on, “our words aren’t heard, our choices denied. Tonight I know what I want does not matter, but what my family desires is what matters.” 
Kinsi- held on my hand- saying “take care of my child. Remind her I loved her dearly.”
Tears fell of my eyes,
I promised that I would take care of them.
She mumbled, I die because of being a woman, because of female genital mutilation.
She said “Hibaq, speak for us. Make sure the world knows a women’s idenity should not be stolen because of FGM.”
We cried into the night.
The world is made into an oppressive situation for women, the cruelty of cultures continue to kill them: Even when we know FGM is haram. Why?
My dear friend, Kinsi, died that cold morning. She bled excessively. 
We cried, and cried. The pain was unbearable and the tears unstoppable.
I envisioned the sad truth ahead for her daughter: Who would not be able to see her mother? A Mum who will not see her daughter grow. 
As my friend slipped away into the arms of death: I could not help but imagine the sad tales of women, our friends, our sisters, our daughters, wives and mothers. 
Being forced to let her go,
I looked outside the window as I chanted verses from the Holy Qur’an.
I hope she finds peace in the hereafter, inshAllah, and her beautiful daugether who is also a victim of this crime.
I will never let this happen to baby Kindi.
I will teach her not to be ashamed when people refer to her as “unclean” for not being circumcised.
This ritual is a thing Somalis are proud when they discuss about, yet ashamed when the world talks about it.
When we know that Allah has not decreed such pain on women, why can’t we stop it?
I am enraged by Somalis who still continue to practice negative rituals. 

Idil Ahmed Mahamed 
Copyright © 2009

Fourth poem of the week: What if today was your day?

The Prophet (alaihi al-salatu wa al-salam) said: ‘Be in this world as if you were a stranger or a traveller’ (Bukhari)

What if today was the day?

What if today was the day?
The day that was written
What would I say?
I’ll remember all the deeds I tried to keep hidden

What if today was the day?
The day I would last see my mom,
Never again to see a ray
of sunshine in the early morning at dawn.

What if today was the day?
The day I would last breathe
and to my dismay
I would be laid to rest on the earth underneath

What if today was the day?
That marks the end of my time on earth
and in my grave I lay,
waiting for my second birth

What if today was the day?
And it just might be…
Which is why I stand and pray
Asking Allah to guide me always.

By: Ashkiro Jama
Copyright ©2009

Third poem of the week: Malika

See Malika was close to her religion
She wanted to be a pediatrician
But her friends had a different intuition
They wanted limitless attention

But Malika understood
that her friends were no good
Unlike them she didn’t blame the hood


For her current condition
Always cooking in the kitchen
Always washing the dishes
Her friends told her they were fulfilling their wishes


And they loved it
Malika wasn’t it with it
She knew this was forbidden
Her body she kept hidden

She didn’t want to be an object
She'd rather be a reject

Malika was only 19
But already a Somalian queen
All the things shed seen
She knew the streets were mean
That they didn’t leave a single girl clean

And she knew she would never give in
In the end she would win
She was almost free from sin

Always reminding herself that this life was a test
And the only thing that matters is how your heart is ,beating in your chest
One of her friends suffered cardiac arrest

U could tell by the way she dressed
While she progressed
Her friends fell far in the mess
So much stress
Leadin a double life more or less

They fell for all the bullshit
And all the guys they ran with
They were like a peace of meat
Replaceable, just like a dirty bed sheet

But from Malika they couldn’t get a taste
And because of this their time they didn’t waste
Cuz they all new Malika was pure and chaste


Her worldy desires she was fighting with her all
She was standing tall
While constantly witnessing others around her fall..



THIS IS FOR ALL MY SISTERS STAYING STRONG IN THESE HARD TIMES ! !
Note: Malika means Queen in Arabic



Ismail Mohamed '' Aka Ismaciil Boqorka Bosaso''
Copyright © 2009

First poem of the Week: Underground People

Skipped school on education

Got impregnated at the age of 16
Now a single mother, stuck raising a kid
End up cleaning floors for living
Just for you to walk on each morning

Mesmerized by the visiting uniform man
Signed up, to catch a dream
Got shipped into war
Ended up taking life
Became political livestock
Pawn to be moved around
Tossed back to society with no backing
Now stuck wandering in the streets

Escaped from war torn country of mine
Everything dear to me swept away
Just fainted memories they are now
With lifelong scarring wounds
Arrived into a land, everything foreign
Beginner I am now

Did stupid mistake
Got caught up and sent to jail
Paid my debt
Felony on my record
Castrated from society
Unable land a job
I am a living dead 

Sadiiq Ashuhle
Copyright © 2010