Categories
Poetry

The Pathway


Maybe I am lost, lost in the quiet Plantain forest
Following a trail of leaves, to a place where I know not

Maybe I am found, searching for my way to the top

Walking hopefully to a place where better tree ropes drop

*

Maybe the path led to the dreaded Crocodile river

Or to the farms that yield the guinea corn and cassava

But I see the birds twitter over my head, plummages of green 

And I watch the monkeys dance, holding their babies as they grin

*

But to me I am walking, moving to a direction I know not

Brave, the tree leaves fall, in my strong faith I firmly trust

I dream of the land where the winds turn to perfect gold

Of me when I shall again return to my land, strong and bold


Categories
Poetry

Folk: Under the Mango tree

1

Breezes and dreams are gifts of Nature to the hardworking villagers, 

After a days heavy toil in the fields of corn, yam and sweet cassava

The men gather to drink the palm wine in the inn located by the mango tree, 

Heavy talks lead to soft talks as the beer sank into the days cramps and pain

Women pound away, some fresh vegetable and chilli hissing through pot lids

The boys and girls play in the dusty sand after their mandatory chores

And the dogs and livestock ran home for the night has no friend or foe

The clouds gather above the village, birds fly away yelling a farewell

And in the distance, the wild prepare for the growing black blanket 

Monkeys called out to their young, the parrots hooted and wild dogs barked

2

From the banks of the flowing stream, mild breezes graze the clan

The wooden gates leading to the forest and big river were closed

With a fire burning to keep the wild cats and spotted hyena away

The livestock are carefully shepherded to the barns for the days rest

As the nights cold grew with the gathering clouds and strong breezes

Yet drunk men paid little attention to the weather, savoring their tasty wine 

The strong breezes brought the scent of cooking to the village inn 

And the men argued delightfully, hoping that the scent was theirs

With some claiming ownership to this steaming soup from somewhere

3

But before it all ends, before the day and man slept

The children gather away from the inns and kitchens

The moon happily bright above all and the village much alive

Then a play or tale must be told to welcome the airy night; 

Tales of the old wise hare and tortoise or the young proud maiden, 

The tale of the ocean and hills or the women who lived beneath the sea

And so the evening tales with the breezes became a lullaby for everyone 







Image: Painted by me…