MP Image may contain: one or more people and closeup Image may contain: one or more people and closeup MiomboPublishing (Poets Free Zimbabwe) has made a slight shift on its Poets Free Zimbabwe   publication.  The  set  of  poems  to  be  published  regularly  in  this  blog journal  will  be  touching  on dictatorship  and corruption until   mid-March  2018 , while    from March  2018  to  August  2018   ,the  journal  will publish  sets  of  poems   on the  fight  for  change  and Freedom  in Zimbabwe  in preparation  of  free  and  fair  elections  .  We need  peace    and stability  in  Zimbabwe . Zimbabwe deserve a  stable  economy   and   a caring  leadership. Five  poets  with  3  poems  each  will  be  published  in each  Poets Free  Zimbabwe  Volume , Some  of  the  poems  might have  been published   in  other  sister  journals  including  our main  campaign  journal, BRAVE  VOICES  POETRY  JOURNAL(Tuck Magazine). The struggle  continues, Aluta Word Guerrillas  and Brave  Voices . Our  Words  are  Our Spears! Great  thank  you  to  all contributors  and  word guerrillas  from  abroad.Contact   us  at .


Y’all Can Stop Dissing my Axe, I Don’t Have All Day
Here’s to those who told me to
Put my left hand down
And speak only when spoken to.
For all who told I to stand over there
And wait my turn,
That girls can’t do that
And it’s unladylike to even think it.
To know my place and stay there.
That if it’s God’s will for me, it will be well
That I will never amount to anything
Because people like me never make it anywhere
That I ‘talk funny’ and shouted me down
So when I finally got to speak,
I stuttered so bad my pen wouldn’t stop flowing
So much so, my son asked me what’s in my flask,
Coffee, tea or water? Not what’s in my wallet.
See my son knows that I have options
And multiple streams of flow.
All the while that I had my head bowed
And my hands behind my back,
I was working the shackles off my wrists
And filing the chains off my waist.
You can’t hear the chains jangling
Because I’m no longer shuffling.
You can’t hear my beads clatter
Because they are costly and don’t clatter
They just shimmer,
Muffled by my hips’ audacious swagger
As I steps over every
mountainous obstacle in my way.
Some I deliberately run over like road kill
For daring to block my path.
I am tagged priceless
Not discounted by the likes of you
Who only see value
In things that glitter.

Robbie Talkingrobbish
Copy right @ Robbie Ajjuah Fantini, 2017


When The Saints 

He died, praise God;
He went to heaven
And demanded his place with
The 24 elders,
Insisted on immediate audience
With the Most High God,
Complained about the Son of God
Not having even started on his mansion.
In heaven they only lift up
The name of the Most High
So instead of telling him to go to hell
They, as in Peter (of course), gave him a big chabaa
Which landed him straight into
The the pit of hell where today,
He is still weeping and wailing and gnashing his teeth.

Copy right @ Robbie Ajjuah Fantini 2017


The Power and The Wielder
I come from a place where you the offended
Have to say, ‘I am sorry ‘.
It feels like having your face ground
Into the shit that has just been pooped on you
And then when you’d be asked
What you are sorry for,
You are then being made to eat
The remaining shit on their shoes for dessert.
Power wielded over the helpless and disadvantaged
Seems to be a highly relished delicacy
That consumes despots who don’t know to wear kid gloves
To apply power to the weak and helpless.
Copy right @ Robbie Ajjuah Fantini 2017


Roberta Turkson    Image may contain: 1 person, smiling, closeup and textis a restaurateur who started writing seriously a few years ago.She published her first book of poetry, Talking Robbish in 2014 and her first children’s storybook, The Children of Abuta Village in 2015.

She just finished writing her second poetry collection, Ghana Handkerchief, and Other Poems and is currently finishing up work on her next children’s storybook. She studied in Ghana, West Africa where she’s from and now lives in Nashville Tennessee.

When she is not writing or cooking, she’s working in her garden and sharing her love for seeing things grow with children. She has a son, Kobby who taught her how easy it is to write poetry. She’s one of seven children and colors her stories with fond settings of her childhood home, Ghana. She writes under the pseudonym, Robbie Ajjuah Fantini.



Where is the sun and the face of light
When the deep dark hates to spread the night
Where is the moon and the glint of stars
For the hours need them to cure the scars
Where is the air and the breath of life
When the wind wants to blow down the strife
Where is the love and seed of trust
For the earth needs it to fix the crust
Where is the way through the door of peace
When hate is rife and wars never cease


Death is buried there into death
Hunger strikes on its own last breath
No spine to shiver, no heart talks
At life’s craving poverty mocks
Dig up the truth from living corpse
To watch, to weep when wisdom warps
Now harmony should resurrect
With peace that has never been wrecked

‘A Barren Land’

A barren land
of soulless corpse.
Dead brothers stand;
mourning mind warps.

A reminder-
Life does not pay
War’s the grinder
death fights the day.


Munia Khan Image may contain: 1 person is a poet and short story writer, born on a spring night of 15th March in the year 1981.She is the author of three poetry collections : Beyond The Vernal Mind (Published from USA, 2012), ;To Evince The Blue (Published from USA, 2014),and Versified (Published from Tel Aviv, Israel, 2016) Her poetry is the reflection of her own life experience and her short stories are mostly fictions based on reality. Her works have been translated into Japanese, Romanian, Urdu,Italian, Dutch have been translated into Japanese, Romanian, Urdu,Italian, Dutchbased on reality. Her works have been translated into Japanese, Romanian, Urdu,Italian, Dutch  and Greek,



Haunted by the illusions of her independence?

A country whose freedom fighters fought hard only to capture themselves in return.

What hope is there for a Country whose pride is but a mirage dented with falsehood?

A mirage that darts on its consciousness when her national anthem rings in foreign lands.

What hope is there for a Country suffering from self-imposed amnesia?

A country that forgets so quickly of the innocent blood that cries for unity yet only fragments of its wholesomeness hangs loosely.

What hope is there for a Country whose leaders are misleading her flock?

A country where your second name is your gate-pass or your curse.

What hope is there for a Country where guns ring supreme yet the rule of law is gagged?

A country where the law is raped in broad daylight by her makers and guards.

What hope is there for a Country where nurses can go on a strike for five months?

A country where the bourgeoisie flies out to foreign hospitals and the pauper claps in return.

What hope is there for a Country whose integrity has disintegrated?

A Country where integrity values are valueless. People act clueless, some ruthless and some careless.

What hope is there for a Country where children are teargassed?

A country where brutality is praised by her casualties.

What hope is there for a Country whose economy is growing malignantly?

A country so rich yet so poor.

What hope is there for a Country where religion is hypocrisy?

A country full of churches, mosques, temples and prophets, yet so unholy.

What hope is there for a Country whose heart is fractured by hate and suspicion?

MTEMI DEDAN@2017Dedan Onyango alias MTEMI Image may contain: 1 person, standing and text  is a Masters student of Literature. He is budding poet and literary enthusiast. He hails from Kenya, a land which inspires his creative life




After fuddled in thought,
Around 12 a.m.,
In the serene night
I depleted my thought
Which was flitting through my mind.
My thought I proffered no ears
But nature reasoned with me.
When depleted,
It was just like a cannikin tipsy with water
And then disgorged.

Night piggybacked me
Decoying me to drift off
And letting me not to take to heart
The scene of dratted, bloody war –
Which my eyes caught
In the placid gyring screen
(Men were moved to war)

What stirred men to bloody war ?
What impelled men to gyre in war ?
In the serenity perception of mind
Heart will proffer them answer
After the taste of juicy ZOBO-BLOOD
Running spill from their heart.

© Martins Tomisin



sitting still on mount Horeb
amidst the stark clouds,
sweeping towards the swept
open space between trees
and pawing at white and dark fleshy flesh.

your pale, smirky lemon face
like the grapefruit in Ago-Iwoye Market
scribbles dirt patches on my face
and made my throat to swill water
enough to fill up a tank-container.

Oh sun-god!
I plead,
do not douse us all
from this buzzy day
only ‘dap’ softly softly
into the balmy, cosy night.

© Martins Tomisin


Hey, look up
see the sun sitting still on the cloudy sky
flaring on the days of worry
and slitting through the sky;
eyeballing on the earth
with a beautiful smile
and then gyring on the placid sky

Hey, look up,
the sun is still sitting still on the sky
as the cloudburst withdrew
like a bat that must flinch In flinch
from the morning-rosette.
all you who draw hot tears
from its sad face
all you who draw sword
against your neighbour
all you who feed fat on bloody wars.
Look at the gyring sun;
sunny, while rain drizzled the earth
and unmoved by the cloudburst:
It glisters all day in serenity
and bring harvest to men.

© Martins Tomisin.


Paddle! Paddle!! Paddle!!!
Paddle your pirogue down the valley
Even when your moment seems heavy
Spring to life in tasteless tingling time
Only the gritty nibbles with the rhythm
of time.

© Martins Tomisin


The hurly–burly wind
That passed by yesterday
Is down the drain
In nothing flat,
A new stripe of book will flicker
Like a virginal carbon-paper
Awaiting to be stricken
In spiffy smirch of streak

The moment lapsed
And the night is at its lull
Copping some z’s
When drapery is drawn over the sun
As if to shoot the next scene of film
Is like snatching dreamer’s dainty dream
Grim reaper can pop up to snatch your consciousness
Or pop up when you are of grey age

No one knows
When it will wheel by
When it will take hold of you
When it will thwack
At the door of your ticker

Grim reaper is that film shot
With characters unidentified
Location not really allocated
Grim reaper is that second coming of Messiah:
Demise is the emblem of life.

To them
That cannot say yes
To the cat-o’-nine-tails of life;
The best of repose has punched the clock
Sweetest of rest it is.

© Martins Tomisin

Martins Tomisin Olusola Image may contain: 1 person, closeup is  currently studying at Olabisi Onabanjo University, Ago-Iwoye, Ogun State where I have earned awards and recognition. Some of my poems have been featured in numerous literary journals, magazines, and anthologies.
I love painting colourful rainbow-of-thoughts on paper.
I vehemently believed that, “life without poetry is like a soup without condiments; without it, life will be flavourless, distasteful and unrhythmic.”

You can get some of works on these websites:






children will not go down with the sinking sun
sacrificed on altars of ambition
crucified buy forces of expediency
tear graffiti scrawling
on debris of their slums of poverty and hovels of crime
we are children born out of the hot sun of Sahara and burning sands of Kalahari
we belong to the semen and condom drunk streets of home
womb of our past explode with souls of martyrs and bones of freedomites choked by ropes of stigmatization
we are morphine -fuelled and marijuana
doped youngsters whose praise
and freedom is robbed by slogan fraudsters
we are dogs breakfasting
from cucumbers and feasting condoms for supper
children of pandemic genocided villages
slaves of sugar and blood
never fondled the breasts of freedom
licked the tears of our mothers
have no dignity to celebrate
we are souls blighted in sufferings
bring us nanobitas of democracy
not shigellas of autocracy.


Harare tonight you sleep a full sleep, may be
after a sunset of a nationalist and democrat table talk
cactus and roses blooming together
your sunshine eaten by rough talk and hate verbs
pavements designed by banana peels and potholes extended from
robot less highways
that beggar still linger around the freedom corner/Julius nyerere avenue
the blind woman grioting around liberation street/Herbert chitepo
Bulawayo your sacredness is bound
by bones of mzilikhazi and breath of lobengula
place of killing , dissidents and innocents
died when bullet wind swept your nights
tell me how many times you coughed blood
a place of kings , Ntabazinduna
your intestines pregnant with gold ,copper , iron and more
heart of the nation
where soils heave with wealth
crocodiles depleted your dignity
leopards stole the color of your rhythm
flex your muscles and claim your heartbeat
Masvingo Ezimbabwe
great Zimbabwe, pride robbed
changamire and mutapa turning their in magic stones
inflation eroded your pride
corruption rode your back
blood corroded your dignity
cry for a ceremonial cleansing
land of sacred , land of rituals
land of silence
mist of inyanga sneeze glee and laughter in your back
while chimani- mani cough out threats and thoughts
lungs of marange choking with diamonds
corrupted fields
defamed wealth
here in the land of the east , i see
the scarred face of the sun
chopped breasts of the moon
villagers tired of toyi toyi
patriots damned by hunger
peasants freezing in propaganda
revolutions eating kindergartens
butcheries of human flesh
winter elections erected poverty.
i see uniform less children trudging through
winter corridors, barefooted
you are colder than joburg,though emotions
boiled during elections
cockroaches breeding other cockroaches in
once midlands hotel
emptiness , hunger ,cold and thoughts
city of progress , rewrite your progress
death threatened even the dead and their shadows
when struggle returned back to war
on the road again fighting enemies of the state their sons
perfume of human flesh roasting in charcoal of violence
March was cruel than april
this season was a parody of nazi Hitler
i like how zambezi vomit fish
crocodiles eating rot and sun
hippos dancing the moonshine
zambia whispering copper in your ears
you are regaining your light.
let fabrics of madness bleach in acid of reason




Villagers feed on new diet of slogans

Peasants imbibing the lyrical taste of ice-cold political alcohol,

Saved with roasted, salted propaganda nuts

Propaganda gods and goddesses smuggling new breeds of manifestos

Paparazzi snorting rumour nicotine for tomorrow editorials and opinions

Half-baked news candy cakes and roughly cooked opinion chocolates

Vendetta – fodder for masses

Rumour- fodder for povo

Concrete streets blistered by hatred posters

City faces scarred by ballot graffiti

Dreams of toddler presidents frozen into tasteless ice cubes in state cold rooms

I see systems steaming away into abortion and condom republics

Revolutions burning away into banana republics.


MBIZO CHIRASHAImage may contain: one or more people, eyeglasses and closeup Founder /Campaign Servant of the Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign, a Poet, Writer in Residence, Social Justice Activist and Publisher –,



One thought on “PENS ARE SHARPER THAN SWORDS!(poets free Zimbabwe Vol.01)

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