A tale of the Christmas Eve


Once upon a time, it was evening and very cold one

For the Ice king was out, on his stroll thru his kingdom

And the Snow witch heralded his welcome; flying before him

Hanging up on trees, weighing down tree branches

Making even huge trees to come crashing down

And painting the whole forest immaculate white

Wood cutters marched home, trying to beat the cold

The snow fell trying to hide the pathways from them


Now the wind made the snow sail, smashing into the faces of the men

Across the frozen lake, a stray hound pack sniffed about

Seeking shelter from the sinister cold which grew with time


‘Ah, ah, ah!’ The wolf pack leader grunted

‘This is monstrous weather, why is the cold so sinister, 

And why is the government not working on it?’

‘The Ice king is angry perhaps’ one of the wolfs replied

As they all sat down with their tails in between their hind legs

‘The Ice king is mad! He is being irrational’ another said

‘I wonder who must be irrational!  The one who hunts others or… ‘

A squirrel was cut off her statement when the pack looked up, 

From another tree, an Owl watched the dramatic wolves as they huddled

The mice living on the tree roots hid away from snow and wolves

And the night was just starting to wake… 


The Night shows mercy to none who sought refuge in her

The inhabitants of the woods knew this very well

The Ice king himself was an admirer of the rocky mountain 

But the mountain has taken no notice of him, she was cold herself

The Ice king will sit for hours, musing over her, wishing up and down

Blowing secret kisses to the wind to send to the mountains side

But the mountain was concerned only with the snow and her cold

From the tall tree tops the doves huhuhu each other

Calling, greeting the snow and her queer emissaries 

Everyone wondered why the night was cold, why it hurt them so


The pathways to the village was covered with thick snow

And the men sought about, lost and eagerly wishing for home;

For the warm mushroom soup awaiting them

And the hot bath and a mug of strong black ale

But the cold night will not let them find their way home

It enticed them, showed them strange caves, apple trees

And the weakling of deers which could have been easy sport

But the men refused all her offers, determined to see their home,  

They climbed trees to see the vast land of white mass

Looking for stray smoke from chimneys or sight of lamps 

Though the wind seemed to take that off their sight too

But once, one yelled with joy as he found a glittering light

And the whole bunch followed him, walking fast in that direction… 


And when the woodcutters made it to the hamlet at last

Walking noisefully through closed gates and homes, 

They counted their good luck out in the fields, 

Trotting faster as their tongue longed for soup


Now from the inn in the village they could hear men sing

Drinking ale from cauldrons, they sang of the white snow

Her malevolence, her treachery, her trickery and her cold heart

They sang of her cold hands and the times it must be intense

And why all; men, flora and fauns must not trust her smiles 


Happy Christmas eve, everyone. I hope you have fun reading this tale. 


Lullaby: Decembers’ rain

Fast falls the evening, mild breezes, cold rain, rinsing the dusty roof tops

Dark clouds shadow the moon, the evening is left to wander alone, 

Trees bow to the swift wind; bending, twisting; left and right

But the night was agog with life, the breezes an excuse for heavy sleepers

A week before the heat was sinister, intense but the rain has come

And has come, to usher in the harmattan to the quiet countryside 
Water dripped from tree leaves, the evening kept songs unsung 

Smell of dust cloud the hamlet, the Night herself a little cold

And when the rains came softly, the pattering on the rooftops sang 

Yet crickets quizzed themselves from their hidden citadel

Making this quiet and fine night, Mother Natures own lullaby


The call of the Stream: tributary of the crocodile river


Now I stand before you, great stream

You tributary of the crocodile river

Flowing from the hills, where no man knows

To our gardens, where beautiful roses grow


I stand before you, Gods own living sculpture

Carved off dust and loam, points of rocks

With fine white waters falling from your top

As your waters rush somewhere without stop


The greens are mixed with brown-black earth

Clouds form a circle above your clean waters

Beneath the waters, is your hideous enclaves

Where the crocodiles rule and the mudfish live


In the midst of the troubled waters that fall

Is a pool which are white but green when settled

Mushrooms abound in the shallow areas of your flow

Marshes, hidden swamps stay at the banks that is low


The banks are slippery, wet with straying waters

Greying mud, untouched, stay humbly unperturbed

The falls fall, mother Nature sings above across the hills

She wash her garment upon the rocks of the waterfalls


Tiny fragment of water fall, tumbling, rolling

Joyfully joining the others in a bigger splash 

Crabs raise their tentacles daring any intruder

But to you oh stream you made all to wonder


Now, I stand before you, great stream

You tributary of the crocodile river 

Flowing from the hills where no man knows 

To our gardens, where beautiful roses grow 


The Mountain

Oh beautiful sculpture
Standing proud above the hamlet,
Above the hills and valleys,
Above whole rivers and rivulets

Oh Gods creative masterpiece
Drawing up grasslands and forests
Painting greens and greys together
Viewing fine pasture and hot deserts

Oh great traditional edifice
The guardian of our little hamlet,
Protector of our flora and fauna
And providing us with food and meat


Many are that wish to

Climb you up from afar

Bend themselves over to take off

their shoes or even put them on


For they have not met a kind like you

Afadja; thick, tall, beautiful!

Let your beauty be heard in far lands

That they may wish to come applaud your elegance

O mountain Afadja!


This is tbe second collabo I will be doing this month, and to make it worth knowing is that I’m doing it with Fampah Coyish, the Ghanaian poet. The image is the mountain Afajda in Ghana and was provided by Fampah. 


Musing: The Ostrich


To you my feathery friend, I write

In the greying fields, your fur I sight

Dangling by your sides are your wings

Your neck is up, for a long time you sing


Caw caw, caw caw those are your favorite words

The wind is your friend, the soil is your playground

The shrub is your hideout, to it you run for safety

Your legs are very strong, your claws are even deadly


In the evenings, the farm fields are your runway

You send stray rats and rodents scampering away

I am not ashamed of you having a bard head

But you my fluffy friend, you are a wonderful bird


In the morning your queer scent fill the farmyard

Your presence serves as scarecrow for our land

But to have you around, beautiful and tall bird 

Is a musing of its own, one that is absolutely good


December Tides


Tasty for the spoils of the dry month, we are

Dry air, dry waterhole, dry lips, dry paper

Moisture lost to the heat of the traveling sun

But our feet has got many options, wait or run

And today the breeze drives the wind to us

We savor, we enjoy, to you emissary we trust

You have come with the mighty Harmattan 

Your dry airs and heat has become our tan


Trees sway

With blur visions on sight

As a bonus for being alive

At the point of the year

Air so dry, with hot sun rays

You only bring us dry tidings 

Cracked foot, that hurt

But we the people of this land still loves you


I have written this piece with Fampah Coyish, a poet from Ghana. The both countries of ours Ghana and Nigeria fall in West Africa, and enjoy the same weather and climate. We have written about December and her tide. I have written the first stanza and Fampah Coyish has got the second. 


December, once again

Dry airs are your best emissaries

They send fine dust flying into our eyes, 

And some minute debris thru the window curtains

Heralding your descent, welcome O December! 
By the corner, under the trees shed

We gather to feel your fresh breeze, 

Feeling the tree leaves dance happily

Tumbling they went, falling with joy
The sun is hot, but the breeze mild

The sands loose, but our foot firm

The birds sing like always, 

They fly away in the evenings
And then the aging clouds, 

And traveling sun set says it all
Welcome O December, welcome!