Now poetry had it all:
A way of life, dreams, and fancy.
When we wake, it sings;
at bedtime, it comes around.
In the fields, in the air,
on the backs of camels,
on automobiles in the streets,
it is on the food we eat.
Can you hear it pray, “Eat me?’
The fish know about it;
the ants do, too.
The color orange is it;
the sky is cut into blue and white bits.
A song from the Scottish pipes,
a strange lifestyle, though awesome;
the streams running hastily over pebbles,
the ducks sitting quietly by a quiet pond,
the nights and the fiery growls of wolves,
the green woodlands of the Earth,
the blue whale’s horn,
a cricket’s screech in the cold,
a happy child dancing,
oh, even a sad moan.
But poetry tells it all:
the roar of the lionesses
prowling the veldt;
Tuaregs, culture, and humanity;
a strong rendition, a choir;
a thought, a drawing, a painting;
the Zulu chant of victory
over brewed mqobothi.
Oh, poetry was made for all!
The seeds of the oil bean
dance about during the skyfall.
An iroko in her prime
lets her branches romance the cloud.
The infants clog about on the clay soil.
The winds that traverse the Earth,
the minute life in the forests,
the talkative green-feathered parrot,
lakes’ serene tales and songs,
trees of ancient poets,
waterfalls’ obscure voices,
the Sahara’s whistling wind—
poetry knows it all.
It is in everyone.
Instrumentals play in my head:
a poem thankful to God,
Maker of man, nature, and poetry.