Muse: Cymbals

I fail when I break your rule

Be rest assured I still love you

For even when the sound of drums and bass guitars go faint

Your peaceful cymbals still play down the sorrow in my heart


Harvest season

Here at the close of the day

Everyone comes to the hay

To dance and clap

To behold the golden wheat

And grains waiting for the whip

The fields are littered with baskets

Occasionally the clouds grumble

To remind the folk of the rainy season

And in the evening wind, baskets tumble

Exposing the grains to the swift wind

But the joy of all

Is the great bounty

For everyone, big and small

Did play a role: to bring it all in!



Listen to Nature sing from the waterfalls,

She thrashes her garments upon the rocks

And wash them with very soft palms

She sends soft waters crashing into the pool

Watching the blue skies as her fingers work

When the waters descend they form

Curtains of white mist

And when the waters touch the pool below

They become changed in the bubbling green

Loose soil cling to Water lilies and Fern roots

As falling waters push the crabs to their burrows

Echoing Natures songs till the evening



Summer rides through the little forest,

Desiring to warm and wake every creature

It saved in the heart of trees that flourish

On the tarred roadside, a sweet aura of air

That kept both faun and flora intrigued!


Image by David Thomas Martins, a friend and a great painter poet.


Muse: Nature’s Art

Night rains are ways mother Nature tell her wonderful stories

From the curtains dance one can feel the strength of the rain

And the routes of her accomplice; the wind

Further away from homes, if you dare to look

One can see the wind dressing the trees hairs

Decorating the trees with every piece of material

It could carry…

Upon the candlelight casts a shadow of a farmer with a pitchfork,

Sometimes the images are ghostly, like a phantom with long fingers

If the curtain sailed close, behind the excited candlelight

The figures may become a weary ship on turbulent waters

Or a shape likened to forming clouds on the firmaments

The lightning and thunder claps reveal the climax of her tales

In her art, she paints and draws images of the lightning

Casting its irregular images upon her cloudy template

Her loud music needs no amplifier or speakers

Unseen trumpets belch out over the hills and valleys

The sound echo for more than a thousand miles,

Shaking the forests and everyone who found refuge in it

And when the rain drops descend on people’s rooftops

Drumming a soft, intimate rhythm,

It told of happiness, fulfilment and peace


The Messengers Gong

Kororom! Kokokorom!! Korokorokom!!!

The gong went off, disturbing the peace of the hamlet

A strange silence descends as the rhythm died down

The evening was cold, sweet breeze from the big river

Made the hamlet cozy and sometimes snores rent the air

Stubborn children turn good

For their parents had threatened

To report them to the messenger

The inn filled with the days laborers

And men who sought refuge in wine

Grow quiet like the graveyard

For the messenger has come

And everyone has to listen!

Kroooromkom! Korokorokom!!

From the long distance a baby wailed

One could hear the mother singing to calm it

The old man with his big radio was even quiet

It seemed everyone desired the news the messenger brought!

Smell of cooking come from the bamboo huts;

Egusi soup and stockfish, the hamlets favorite

Lovers under the Oil bean tree seat aghast

Wondering why the messenger visited that night

Even the trees and her inhabitants

Stood in great silence

For the messenger has come

So everyone must pay great attention!



In the rural parts of Igboland the easiest way to disperse a message or information to the people was through the towncrier which translates to the messenger in this piece. They are usually armed with wooden or metallic gongs which they beat out to draw the peoples attention.

Krokorom…: The sound made from the messengers gong.

Egusi soup: A delicacy popular in the South of Nigeria. Normally prepared from the seeds of a typical melon fruit/vegetable grown in West Africa.


Musing: Traveler

By the foot of the hills he stood to look back

Waving to images, thin from the long distance

I was among those thin images that stood afar

Watching as he disappeared from our glance

He had left stories in our mouths and hearts

Taught us that we must leave the quiet village,

To learn from the moving train of soldier ants

To go beyond the hills and bring success back

The golden sun was just setting

But he was already gone

The little ones will know little of him

And we must wait for his return