Okechukwu’s Musings: Poetry, People and Places

Tag: harmattan

  • Harmattan Has Come!

    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

  • 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…

  • 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…

  • 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…

  • By the Window side on the Harmattan

    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…

  • Kpe’re in the Harmattan

  • Harmattan

    The days are made beautiful by your glorious appearance, but when the sun rises over the clouds, the warmth fades away, and for men, faces become caricatures of disgust in the mirror. In the morning, even before the Sun rises, the sky and the pathways are filled with mist. The trail to the stream and…

  • Cold Harmattan

  • Childhood Harmattan