Harmattan arrived grandly With the smell of burning grass, Dry nostrils and painted faces Harmattan made land arid So mud is now waterproof, And men without a sense of smell The thick fog of smoke and dust Greet the land that once knew rain Speak of her cold art: dusty faces & feet
Tag: harmattan
Swift Breezes
Swift breezes welcome me to my hometown My mind is at rest, for the love felt around Palm trees are sentries, termites their soldiers Cherries and mangoes throw fruits, sweet as sugar Swift breezes blow through our quiet neighbourhood I stand under tree shades, with my hands raised When tree leaves struggle all about breezy… Continue reading Swift Breezes
February Harmattan
Harbinger of Sahara, king of the queer dust I hail you! Your entourage of heavy sand storms and dunes Display there works of art on our glass windows and faces You give us very strange attires, ghostly ones We wonder, we make guesses of why you love the dust, Why you paint all; flowers, careless… Continue reading February Harmattan
Haiku of the Harmattan
Green things are brown Harmattan made them so Even trees turn mad dancers
Harmattan winds
Harmattans graceful blankets slowly descend, Blowing dry brown dust upon our hamlet, On misty mornings and smoky evenings
Night before Christmas
It was the night before Christmas, Not a thing was heard or seen at first For the cold night was at its worst But three woodcutters walked through the forest Marching joyfully towards home It was cold, terribly cold that no one could make sense of it So the woodcutters held their lamps close to… Continue reading Night before Christmas
December Tides
1 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… Continue reading December Tides
Once by the window side
One can see the greenfields
The tulips and the sweet smelling Rose
And the little spider crawling about in her net
The golden sun shines forth
Bringing her warmth through the window
And the birds twitter on the tree
Which live near the windowside
Sometimes squirrels come bounding in
Throwing their pack of nuts into the room
But when the dusts of Harmattan came
And the tree leaves turn brown
And the grasses grow not again
No one looked through the window…
For it all became dark and filled with soot
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Now real love feels like
Standing on a rocky land
Surrounded by bamboo trees
On a very hot sunny day
By the side of a flowing stream
Filled with children playing
In the coldness of the waters
And watching the hovering hawks
Circle the area like a scout
As each burst of Heavenly air
Shakes the leaves of the forest
Making the pines whistle
And the bamboo leaves shiver
The tiny silver fishes swerve about
Like a dancing carnival, up and down
And the brown and black crabs
Hide behind flowing tree leaves
The trees on the streams pathway
Shed their leaves joyfully
Watching as they fall quietly
Into the ever quiet stream
The squirrels on tree tops
Watch patiently for any intruder
Holding nuts picked from trees
Now the rocks, so bold and ancient
With indelible marks of Nature
And the strange folk tales told
The waters fall on the stones
And in a queer haste wash down
The rocky body of waterfall
Throwing a splattering noise
Not so far away
Like Nature washing her garments
On the waterfalls as she sing
The distorted but unified painting
Of Natures sweet wholesomeness
Wonder, green and beauty
Love for you, motherland
Commentary:
Kpe’re is the name of my hamlets stream located in Ovim in Isuikwuato in Nigeria. It is a very fine sight, full of ancient rocks and exotic forest of bamboo and many pretty flowers and plants. I can recall vividly stories told me about the stream and her forest. Wild animals; wild dogs, hyena, antelopes, boars, pythons etc have been sighted and once I witnessed a rare specie of snake being killed during a visit in one of the past Decembers. I can also recall swimming when suddenly a snake came with the streams tide, everyone had to run for safety, hahaha. I was a kid then. There is this particular rock by the bamboo forest which has the mark of a very Fish. My mom told me during one heavy down pour, that fishes came down from the clouds and one landed on the rock leaving that mark, hmmm! Well, the exotic appearance of the streamside is one of wonder, nature and beauty. Perhaps I will take pictures of here some day.
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The days are made beautiful with your glorious appearance
But when the sun rises up the clouds, the warmth is taken
And for men, faces become a caricature of disgust upon the mirror
In the morning even before the Suns rising
The firmament and the pathways is filled with mists
The track to the stream and forest is covered
The road is treacherous, for snakes sleep in your wake
The dews settle upon the leaves of trees, weighing down the branches
And all about the vegetation, smell of burning grass and wet clay stay
The greens turn red with dust
The greens frown and grow brown
When the hawks circle the skies
Searching for stray rats and chicken
The sun rises afterwards
Hot and boiling
Drying, dehydrating all
Taking the wetness off the trees
The thirst for water becomes paramount
The streams and rivulets
Quench the thirst of body and soul
Refreshing, fruits become a taste
Harmattan brings both joy and love
The evening breeze brings cool airs
A warm distraction from the heat of the day
The dry muds crack as men thread upon them
The leaves crack and fall in circles
Stripping naked proud trees and shrubs
The streams become more shallow
Children play in them, throwing water up
At one another in pure ecstacy
When the nights happen upon men
The mists return to shield the way
The moon shine lightly,
Upon the village and hamlet
The shadows of trees are hidden
In the thick fog which grows about
And when men gather in the inns
To paint the works of the day
With words come from cracked lips
And voices high pitched like the Nightingales
The airy evening bring good tidings upon them
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Cold Harmattan
If there comes a knock on the door Don’t be in a hurry to answer For there goes a strong wind Rushing about the dry cloud A very strange bust of air Roaming the streets, the fields Pulling leaves, and sand along Dancing on the pathway leading to the hamlet Painting faces with all white… Continue reading Cold Harmattan
Childhood Harmattan
I wonder why I miss the harmattan Why it is yet to come Why it stays in his cloak Shy and letting the rain bully him I miss the smell of dust cakes And our delay in burning the grasses So I can see the fumes dance to meet the sky And why we ‘stay’… Continue reading Childhood Harmattan
