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folklore Pastoral Poetry

Another Tale from the Wild Woods

image

There’s a land behind those ancient hills
Hidden in the thick greened forest,
One of mighty foliage, brushes & roots
Dark green shrubs gather by the riverside
Ripe fruits plunge into the quiet waters
And fish schools scatter in excitement
Brown and black crabs meet to get drunk
Squirrels watch them, amused from treetops
The forest is awake, nature’s fine circus
At all times, the quiet cloud is navy blue
And king of forest do fall in love with it
When the cloud blush it rains softly; mildly
And little creatures which live in the land
Look up to the ever smiling forest king
‘Oh, how handsome his face look’, a cricket said
‘He is really in love with the selfish cloud
But we won’t understand why she always refuses
To love the handsome king back!’ some pigeons answered
‘I tell you that she is possessed, who should resist the forest king?’
The wolf alpha added, as he looked up
‘The forest king won’t talk yet, all he did is stare and smile
How savagely awful!’ Some pine trees whined
‘If for nothing but admiration is the reason to love
I choose not to love’, the philosophical Woodpecker concluded.

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culture/tradition folklore lifestyle Nature Pastoral Poetry

Amuse: Singina likes my tales


“I remember your funny and lovely tales,” she yawned
“You complete my day with those poems of yours!”
At first I wasn’t sure of what I did right exactly,
But as a shepherd I find pleasure writing about life,
Telling of my travel, of my long days and how it ends
Now, tomorrow I shall tell you another tale
If seriously you love these tales I tell you,
Then you must pay attention, for it is not a lullaby
But some tales are ill: when I fought my fears;
To swim in the great river which flowed west,
And when I caught a forbidden crab from the river
I must tell you for you wished to hear of the Python
That took a traveler who was saved at the last point
Do not gasp, pay great attention, for some of my lyrics
Are not just songs, but words others say or teach me
So you must pay great attention to what I say, Singina

Categories
Africa culture/tradition folklore Igbo culture lifestyle Nature Pastoral Series

Diaries of a Village boy: The Leopard spirit 7

Papa said I had to be strong to attend the next Tales by Moonlight night. He also promised I could play and hunt with other children if I got well fast. So I took my medication and exercise seriously. The moonlight night tales come once in a fortnight, sometimes it may be delayed especially during the rainy and farming season. It was every child’s wish to listen to those ancient tales sitting outside, under a tree and the feel of fresh air on their bare skin. The old women who told the tales were called mama and sometimes brought fresh coconut juice and pieces of dried bush meat for everyone. The moonlight nights were secret rendezvous for young lovers. In fact, this was the major reason many teens looked forward to the event. Before the tales are told, some older children organise quizzes, talkshows, debates and games like wrestling, hides and seek and nchokotoro, which was girls favourite game. The boys will gather, not to play but to cheer their crush. I can’t remember exactly what moral I learned in the past tales but I was determined not to miss the next.

But who knew what may happen to me next? All the dibia, Papa brought had failed to cage the spirit and each time I came under an attack I was left at the mercy of other people. So I couldn’t control it. Each day, I grew afraid of myself and wished I could live my life as a normal boy. Who says you are not normal? I felt a voice question. There were strange voices in my head. Mild, sometimes harsh but never sinister. I could connect to it somehow, but not for long. This was a mystery unknown even to Papa and he was not happy seeing his son suffer for nothing. Maybe I could find out what I could achieve with this power. Just maybe, only that a Leopard is not faint hearted like myself. I shrugged at the thought of comparing myself to Leopards. In character and thought, I was just the opposite of it.

My friends came that afternoon to check on me. I smiled at their goofy locally made fishing suits. Odo had made one for himself from a fishing net. He wore it to my room and was narrating how the villagers admired and watched him as he walked through the clan. I knew he was bragging, I saw nothing special in his new fishing net suit. The boys brought some Udala and mango. Ah! I knew my friends were not privileged like myself to attend school but I would never trade them for anything!

“Thanks guys!”

“Have you heard that the strange crocodile has resurfaced and is even digging again?” Obi asked, cutting my greeting off.

“That’s old news. The animal has turned our clean stream water into mud, we can’t even use the stream anymore.” Odo replied.

“Really?” I asked. “I thought it was captured when I was away?”

“No nah. The hunters caught a beaver. A beaver is not a crocodile.” Chimdi answered. She was the only girl friend in our midst. She seldom spoke and will always be the first to laugh when the boys come to mischief.

“Can you cook or bath with mud?” Odo ignored her.

“Well, the Igwe has summoned a hunting party at his palace. I knew because my father is a volunteer for the hunt.” Ekeledi added. He was handsome. But he was a stammerer and pronounced each word after striking his foot on the floor. He got angry easily and will hit anyone with any available object…

To be continued…

Categories
culture/tradition folklore lifestyle Nature Pastoral Series

Folklore: The Straw, the Coal and the Bean from Gutenberg Project

In a village dwelt a poor old woman, who had gathered together a dish of beans and wanted to cook them. So she made a fire on her hearth and that it might burn the quicker, she lighted it with a handful of straw. When she was emptying the beans into the pan, one dropped without her observing it, and lay on the ground beside a straw, and soon afterwards a burning coal from the fire leapt down to the two. Then the straw began and said: ‘Dear friends, from whence do you come here?’ The coal replied: ‘I fortunately sprang out of the fire, and if I had not escaped by sheer force, my death would have been certain,–I should have been burnt to ashes.’ The bean said: ‘I too have escaped with a whole skin, but if the old woman had got me into the pan, I should have been made into broth without any mercy, like my comrades.’ ‘And would a better fate have fallen to my lot?’ said the straw. ‘The old woman has
destroyed all my brethren in fire and smoke; she seized sixty of them at once, and took their lives. I luckily slipped through her fingers.’

‘But what are we to do now?’ said the coal.

‘I think,’ answered the bean, ‘that as we have so fortunately escaped death, we should keep together like good companions, and lest a new mischance should overtake us here, we should go away together, and repair to a foreign country.’

The proposition pleased the two others, and they set out on their way together. Soon, however, they came to a little brook, and as there was no bridge or foot-plank, they did not know how they were to get over it. The straw hit on a good idea, and said: ‘I will lay myself straight across, and then you can walk over on me as on a bridge.’ The straw therefore stretched itself from one bank to the other, and the coal, who was of an impetuous disposition, tripped quite boldly on to the newly-built bridge. But when she had reached the middle, and heard the water rushing beneath her, she was after all, afraid, and stood still, and ventured no farther. The straw, however, began to burn, broke in two pieces, and fell into the stream. The coal slipped after her, hissed when she got into the water, and breathed her last. The bean, who had prudently stayed behind on the shore, could not but laugh at the event, was unable to stop, and laughed so heartily that she burst. It would have been all over with her, likewise, if, by good fortune, a tailor who was travelling in search of work, had not sat down to rest by the brook. As he had a compassionate heart he pulled out his needle and thread, and sewed her together. The bean thanked him most prettily, but as the tailor used black thread, all beans since then have a black seam.

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Uncategorized

Folklore: Old Sultan from project Gutenberg

A shepherd had a faithful dog, called Sultan, who was grown very old, and had lost all his teeth. And one day when the shepherd and his wife were standing together before the house the shepherd said, “I will shoot old Sultan tomorrow morning, for he is of no use now.” But his wife said, “Pray let the poor faithful creature live; he has served us well a great many years, and we ought to give him a livelihood for the rest of his days.” “But what can we do with him?” said the shepherd, “he has not a tooth in his head, and the thieves don’t care for him at all; to be sure he has served us, but then he did it to earn his livelihood; tomorrow shall be his last day, depend upon it.”

Poor Sultan, who was lying close by them, heard all that the shepherd and his wife said to one another, and was very much frightened to think tomorrow would be his last day; so in the evening he went to his good friend the wolf, who lived in the wood, and told him all his sorrows, and how his master meant to kill him in the morning. “Make yourself easy,” said the wolf, “I will give you some good advice. Your master, you know, goes out every morning very early with his wife into the field; and they take their little child with them, and lay it down
behind the hedge in the shade while they are at work. Now do you lie down close by the child, and pretend to be watching it, and I will come out of the wood and run away with it; you must run after me as fast as you can, and I will let it drop; then you may carry it back, and they will think you have saved their child, and will be so thankful to you that they will take care of you as long as you live.” The dog liked this plan very well; and accordingly so it was managed. The wolf ran with the child a little way; the shepherd and his wife screamed out; but Sultan soon overtook him, and carried the poor little thing back to his master and mistress. Then the shepherd patted him on the head, and said, “Old Sultan has saved our child from the wolf, and therefore he shall live and be well taken care of, and have plenty to eat. Wife, go home, and give him a good dinner, and let him have my old cushion to sleep on as long as he lives.” So from this time forward Sultan had all that he could wish for.

Soon afterwards the wolf came and wished him joy, and said, “Now, my good fellow, you must tell no tales, but turn your head the other way when I want to taste one of the old shepherd’s fine fat sheep.” “No,” said Sultan; “I will be true to my master.” However, the wolf thought he was in joke, and came one night to get a dainty morsel. But Sultan had told his master what the wolf meant to do; so he laid wait for him behind the barn door, and when the wolf was busy looking out for a good fat sheep, he had a stout cudgel laid about his back, that combed his locks for him finely. Then the wolf was very angry, and called Sultan “an old rogue,” and swore he would have his revenge. So the next morning the wolf sent the boar to challenge Sultan to come into the wood to fight the matter. Now Sultan had nobody he could ask to be his second but the shepherd’s old
three-legged cat; so he took her with him, and as the poor thing limped along with some trouble, she stuck up her tail straight in the air.

The wolf and the wild boar were first on the ground; and when they espied their enemies coming, and saw the cat’s long tail standing straight in the air, they thought she was carrying a sword for Sultan to fight with; and every time she limped, they thought she was picking up a stone to throw at them; so they said they should not like this way of fighting, and the boar lay down behind a bush, and the wolf jumped up into a tree. Sultan and the cat soon came up, and looked about and wondered that no one was there. The boar, however, had not quite hidden himself, for his ears stuck out of the bush; and when he shook one of them a little, the cat, seeing something move, and thinking it was a mouse, sprang upon it, and bit and scratched it, so that the boar jumped up and grunted, and ran away, roaring out, “Look up in the tree, there sits the one who is to blame.” So they looked up, and espied the wolf sitting amongst the branches; and they called him a cowardly rascal, and would not suffer him to come down till he was heartily ashamed of himself, and had promised to be good friends again with old Sultan.

Categories
Pastoral

Folklore: King Grisly Beard from Project Gutenberg

A great king of a land far away in the East had a daughter who was very beautiful, but so proud, and haughty, and conceited, that None of the
princes who came to ask her in marriage was good enough for her, and she only made sport of them.

Once upon a time the king held a great feast, and asked thither all her suitors; and they all sat in a row, ranged according to their rank–kings, and princes, and dukes, and earls, and counts, and barons, and knights. Then the princess came in, and as she passed by them she had something spiteful to say to every one. The first was too fat: ‘He’s as round as a tub,’ said she. The next was too tall: ‘What a maypole!’ said she. The next was too short: ‘What a dumpling!’ said she. The fourth was too pale, and she called him ‘Wallface.’ The fifth was too red, so she called him ‘Coxcomb.’ The sixth was not straight enough; so she said he was like a green stick, that had been laid to dry over a baker’s oven. And thus she had some joke to crack upon every one: but she laughed more than all at a good king who was there. ‘Look at him,’ said she; ‘his beard is like an old mop; he shall be called Grisly-beard.’ So the king got the nickname of Grisly-beard.

But the old king was very angry when he saw how his daughter behaved, and how she ill-treated all his guests; and he vowed that, willing or unwilling, she should marry the first man, be he prince or beggar, that came to the door.

Two days after there came by a travelling fiddler, who began to play under the window and beg alms; and when the king heard him, he said, ‘Let him come in.’ So they brought in a dirty-looking fellow; and when he had sung before the king and the princess, he begged a boon. Then the king said, ‘You have sung so well, that I will give you my daughter for your wife.’ The princess begged and prayed; but the king said, ‘I have sworn to give you to the first comer, and I will keep my word.’ So words and tears were of no avail; the parson was sent for, and she was married to the fiddler. When this was over the king said, ‘Now get ready to go–you must not stay here–you must travel on with your husband.’ Then the fiddler went his way, and took her with him, and they soon came to a great wood. ‘Pray,’ said she, ‘whose is this wood?’

‘It belongs to King Grisly-beard,’ answered he; ‘hadst thou taken him, all had been thine.’ ‘Ah! unlucky wretch that I am!’ sighed she; ‘would that I had married King Grisly-beard!’ Next they came to some fine meadows. ‘Whose are these beautiful green meadows?’ said she. ‘They belong to King Grisly-beard, hadst thou taken him, they had all been thine.’ ‘Ah unlucky wretch that I am!’ said she; ‘would that I had married King Grisly-beard!’

Then they came to a great city. ‘Whose is this noble city?’ said she. ‘It belongs to King Grisly-beard; hadst thou taken him, it had all been thine.’ ‘Ah! wretch that I am!’ sighed she; ‘why did I not marry King Grisly-beard?’ ‘That is no business of mine,’ said the fiddler: ‘why should you wish for another husband? Am not I good enough for you?’ At last they came to a small cottage. ‘What a paltry place!’ said she; ‘to whom does that little dirty hole belong?’ Then the fiddler said, ‘That is your and my house, where we are to live.’ ‘Where are your servants?’ cried she. ‘What do we want with servants?’ said he; ‘you must do for yourself whatever is to be done. Now make the fire, and put on water and cook my supper, for I am very tired.’

But the princess knew nothing of making fires and cooking, and the fiddler was forced to help her. When they had eaten a very scanty meal they went to bed; but the fiddler called her up very early in the morning to clean the house. Thus they lived for two days: and when they had eaten up all there was in the cottage, the man said, ‘Wife, we can’t go on thus, spending money and earning nothing. You must learn to weave baskets.’ Then he went out and cut willows, and brought them home, and she began to weave; but it made her fingers very sore. ‘I see this work won’t do,’ said he: ‘try and spin; perhaps you will do that better.’ So she sat down and tried to spin; but the threads cut her tender fingers till the blood ran. ‘See now,’ said the fiddler, ‘you are good for nothing; you can do no work: what a bargain I have got! However, I’ll try and set up a trade in pots and pans, and you shall stand in the market and sell them.’ ‘Alas!’ sighed she, ‘if any of my father’s court should pass by and see me standing in the market, how they will laugh at me!’

But her husband did not care for that, and said she must work, if she did not wish to die of hunger. At first the trade went well; for many people, seeing such a beautiful woman, went to buy her wares, and paid their money without thinking of taking away the goods. They lived on this as long as it lasted; and then her husband bought a fresh lot of ware, and she sat herself down with it in the corner of the market; but a drunken soldier soon came by, and rode his horse against her stall, and broke all her goods into a thousand pieces. Then she began to cry, and knew not what to do. ‘Ah! what will become of me?’ said she; ‘what will my husband say?’ So she ran home and told him all. ‘Who would have thought you would have been so silly,’ said he, ‘as to put an earthenware stall in the corner of the market, where everybody passes? But let us have no more crying; I see you are not fit for this sort of work, so I have been to the king’s palace, and asked if they did not want a kitchen-maid; and they say they will take you, and there you will have plenty to eat.’

Thus the princess became a kitchen-maid, and helped the cook to do all the dirtiest work; but she was allowed to carry home some of the meat that was left, and on this they lived.

She had not been there long before she heard that the king’s eldest son was passing by, going to be married; and she went to one of the windows and looked out. Everything was ready, and all the pomp and brightness of the court was there. Then she bitterly grieved for the pride and folly which had brought her so low. And the servants gave her some of the rich meats, which she put into her basket to take home.

All on a sudden, as she was going out, in came the king’s son in golden clothes; and when he saw a beautiful woman at the door, he took her by the hand, and said she should be his partner in the dance; but she trembled for fear, for she saw that it was King Grisly-beard, who was making sport of her. However, he kept fast hold, and led her in; and the cover of the basket came off, so that the meats in it fell about. Then everybody laughed and jeered at her; and she was so abashed, that she wished herself a thousand feet deep in the earth. She sprang to the door to run away; but on the steps King Grisly-beard overtook her, and brought her back and said, ‘Fear me not! I am the fiddler who has lived with you in the hut. I brought you there because I really loved you. I am also the soldier that overset your stall. I have done all this only to cure you of your silly pride, and to show you the folly of your ill-treatment of me. Now all is over: you have learnt wisdom, and it is time to hold our marriage feast.’

Then the chamberlains came and brought her the most beautiful robes; and her father and his whole court were there already, and welcomed her home on her marriage. Joy was in every face and every heart. The feast was grand; they danced and sang; all were merry; and I only wish that you and I had been of the party.

Categories
Poetry Series

The Witch’s Lair

Once there was a traveler, weak and weary,
Fatigued with the burden of travel and bag on his back,
And many tiny painful stones hiding in his shoes
He carried a bag which held a guitar for he could play
But faint was he, clinging closely to his life,
Hoping to see an inn or a well of water
He sang all the way and so he was exhausted
Evening was fast upon his heels while
Darkness; a vile and unpleasant creature
Which found joy leading tired travelers astray
Clung to every signpost he passed
The clouds gathered, strong winds rehearsed,
Further away, the road walked away from the man
Casting shadows of smoke rising from chimneys
But when he came to each bend, it was rocks,
Huge rocks sitting all about the open field
Adding to the fears the traveler’s heart held
In the growing darkness, he finally found a place
So with his final strength he dragged himself to the door,
As a silent prayer left his breath, then on the wall he leaned
Grasses stood at this doorway with patched gravel
And quarried stones lay littered about, carelessly
He thought someone was counting, counting numbers, numbers…
Then the door flung open!
Alas a miracle, he cried
A young lady peered out…
She brought out an arm
A leg, then other parts of her body followed
In instalments…
“There will be a storm soon, night is here
And if the rain storm came, you won’t find your way
Stay. Come in, have some warm tea… ” She offered
Surely great winds, the emissary of the rain came
Followed by lightnings that tells of a coming storm
There was little time to think, so the traveler went in
During the night it rained heavily, the roads were not seen
Pieces of grass, torn from plants squashed at the window
The house lamps glowed in the thick darkness
Rain drops beat up the window, roughly and hard
But the traveler took fancy of tea and lady’s beauty
Then as he laid his bags down, a chord struck on his guitar
Reminding the traveler of a story about trust and strangers
So he refused the lady’s warm bath offer
And will not take the nut bread she gave too
Lying down at the window, he observed the open fields
From whence he came, he was glad he found a place
His eyes gave way to slumber and he almost slept off
Lightning cracked up shaking the wall, cold kept him awake
The fire licked the wood in the chimney when sleep worried him
No one could say though if the lullaby came from rain
Or from the sugared tea cup offered by the lady,
He thought he saw a fiery creature in one of those lightning
And decided to keep himself awake through the night
“What’s the matter?” The lady asked
She must have perceived the traveler’s unease
”I get fever in storms, do you mind if I played my guitar for a while?’
”I don’t mind, so far you won’t get me sleeping!’ the lady laughed
So the traveler pulled out his guitar and stroke the lines gently
Closing his eyes he began to sing as his fingers worked,
He sang of the crazy fat frog which stole a pretty maiden’s voice,
And the poor orphans who got lost in the Wild woods,
He sang of the three cunny wolves up the rock cleavages
And the pain of traveling alone…
As the rain’s cold grew, he sang the tale of love
Taking his time to romance his guitar’s chords
Finding true words to fall in with the rhythm
And before he could raise his eye the lady was fast asleep
Snoring away, in her sleep a knife dropped from her dress
So the traveler played more until the morning sun
But as he woke the lady to bid her farewell,
She became worried, blushing at the traveler’s bye
Wondering why she slept so long
The traveler found his hat and bags
And before you say Jack was on his way home.
Surely, a man’s gift may save his life

Categories
Poetry

Poetale:  The Traveler and the Witch’s lair


There came a traveler weak and weary, 
Fatigued with the heavy bag on his back
And many tiny stones inside his shoes
In his bag he carried a guitar for he could play well
He fainted slowly, clinging closely to his life, 
Hoping to see an inn or a well for water
For he had sang all the way and had his water exhausted

The evening was fast behind his heels with
Darkness; a vile and unpleasant creature 
Which found joy leading tired travelers astray
The clouds gather solemnly, the winds grew, 
Further away, the road beckoned to the man
Casting shadows of smoke rising from houses
But when he came to the bend, it was rocks, 
Huge rocks sitting all about the open field
Fueling the fears that the traveler’s heart held
In the growing darkness, he finally found a place
With his final strength he dragged himself to the door
A silent prayer left his breath as he leaned on the wall

Grasses stood at the doorway with patched gravel
And some quarried stones which lay littered about
He thought someone was counting, counting numbers, numbers… 

Suddenly the door flung open! 
Alas a miracle, he thought
A young lady looked out… 
She brought out an arm
Then a leg, then other parts
Of her body, in instalments
‘There will be a storm soon
The weather and night is here
And if the rain storm came
You won’t find your way home
Come in, have some warm tea… ‘
She soothingly offered the traveler 
Surely the emissary of the rain came
Followed by another, and many more
There was no time to think, 
So the traveler followed her in

In the night it rained heavily, so the roads were not seen
Pieces of grass, torn from plants squashed at the window
The house lamps glowed in the thick darkness
Rain drops battered the windows hard
Seeming to call out, to the weary traveler
Yelling his name, knocking at the glass windows
But the tea and lady’s beauty caught his fancy
The traveler reserved most of his trust to himself, 
He won’t let the lady steam some water for bath
And will not take the nut bread she offered too
Lying down at the window, he observed the open fields

From whence he came, he was glad he found a place

Lightning drew cracks across the wall, the cold made him shake

The fire licked the wood in the chimney and sleep worried him

No one could say though if the lullaby came from the rain beats

Or from the sugared tea cup offered by the lady, 

He thought he saw a fiery creature in one of those lightning flash

And decided to force himself to stay awake through the night

‘What’s the matter?’ The lady spoke finally

She must have perceived the travelers unease

‘I get fever in storms, rain storms, do you mind if I played my guitar for a while?’

‘I don’t mind, so far you won’t get me sleeping!’ the lady laughed hysterically

So the traveler pulled out his guitar and stroke the lines gently 

Closing his eyes he began to sing as his fingers worked mildly

He sang of the crazy fat frog which stole a pretty maidens voice

And the poor orphans who got lost in the Wild woods

He sang of the three cunny wolves up the rock cleavages

And the pain of traveling alone… 

As the rain’s cold grew, he sang the tale of love

Taking his time to romance his guitar chords 

Finding true words to fall in with the rhythm

And before he could raise his eye the lady was asleep

Snoring deeply and in her sleep she had dropped a knife

She held, hidden in her long dress

He played more and kept on until the morning 

But then as he woke the lady, she became worried 

Wondering why she slept and why the traveler was standing 

It wasn’t long, the traveler was on his way home.  

Categories
Poetry

The Legend of Wawadomea

Verse 2: Cannibals of the East 2

The sunset drew a picture
Which had lived with me
For all my younger life
A strange uproar heartfelt
It was aye, very strange
That aye, I mean I
Will be amongst this lot
This people forsaken kind of clan
Living the life of a sea pirate
Out in the weirdest part of the ocean

The blue horizon, carved on the skies
With birds returning, to their homes
And we, in a strange-looking island
Somewhere off the vast ocean
Cautious and seldom willing to prowl about
A fading horn sounded, not so far away
All looked up, staring at each other
“I afraid, I wonder, what may that be?”
Pirate Tusky, wanting a left hand said
He must have spoken so loud
That even the half deaf Cronorie
Swiftly swerved around to look at him,

The Lifnante was glad we were off sea
I felt so, on an errand sent from Sundjata
The Lifnante was high on bottled spirits
“Git here boy, havee som rhum, will ya?”
I could feel the uncalled-for excitement
He was at the extreme end of the camp
There was a group of rocks
Bordering the beach and the forest
And he cared for less
“There’s a horn sire, a sort of bugle sire”
I delivered my message, but he
He waved me off with the hand
And grunted as a pirate filled his cup

The night was stormy, but all was claim
Just lightning and flash all the way
I was awake, I was scared all the time
But then I slept when I knew not…

To be continued…

Categories
Nature Uncategorized

Welcoming November, with Love

There is this month which gave good memories

It brings hope, joy and consolation

And expectations grow when the month arrives

The moments are like mixed gold dusts

Falling from eyes, distorted, unified, in-explainable

A desire to see it come and go and so on…

It tells of the way we have gone since the year

Pause. Think, a pathway to something bigger

A month of  benevolence, carved of love herself

Created to accommodate all who wished to move…

The clouds are indifferent you know

Seem they stayed in wait for the month

The Earth grow dry with each day

Either the sun is tanning here

Or the snow is falling somewhere

The air is normally dry

It brings us tidings of many cities

Traveling thru the North via the South

Riding the winds so mild, so soft

And when she passes she blow kisses

November is a month of songs

The drums, the cymbals, the lyrics, the flutes

Everything that makes life a little spicy

It is a month of apples and brown leaves

The leaves fall in circles before our eyes

I wish you all a blessed new month

Welcome to November!

Categories
Pastoral

The Shepherds Tale, another

Night approached silently again

And to the shepherd it was time to retire

A time of his loneliness, a time of his daydreaming

The Night  was the shepherds only companion

She brought with her a galaxy and some fresh air

And a bouquet of country music from the other locals

When the shepherd laid down, his head on his pillow of wool

He beheld the dark skies of the Night from his window

Smiling to the thought of his sheep, to the glittering stars

Which has come to welcome him from the long day at the field

The stars twinkle like fireworks, the shepherd rejoice on the view

Colorful, entertaining the sweet Night will be his only companion

And his lullaby will be sheep’s bleating and the music from the locals

Categories
Uncategorized

A Poetale: Night and the Wind

Flirty
Breezy wind of the south
Woo my candle light
Which danced like a mad man
She paint the wall
With the silhoutte of the light
Drawing pictures of many objects
Showing a magnified view of shapes
Scary and gigantic. Titanic!
The curtains are thrown up
At each blast from the wind
And her underwears revealed
The wind surged forward
Re-echoing the song of the Pine
Driving hard upon the street poles
And pulling the rooftops viciously
Making crazy men of the beer inn yell

And just outside, by the window
Dogs raced home to their forts
Even the trees knew some danger
The wind danced about the street road
Riding on newspapers and cellophane,
On every stray thing upon the Earth
She roamed about the street
Like a little hurricane
Upon the quiet fields of farms
And no one dared stand before her!

The grip of the quiet night,
Clouds which won’t rain
The firmaments when darkened
And the appearance of the wind
Upon which asunder came with
The dirt that flew into eyes
The songs of the Whistling Pine
And the disturbed roof tops
All tell this tale tonight…

A tale I love to write about

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Africa’s poetale

Africa is a budding cocoon
A shy, fragile and cute butterfly
With shaky wings meant to fly
Living, in a desperate world

Africa is the gigantic tree
That grows by the side of the river
Shielding the lengths of the forests
And feeding the lifes around it

Africa is a mountain highly peaked
With white snows melting gracefully
And herds of Wildebeest grazing
Quietly down the grassy green plains

Africa is a mild song
That plays when the sunshine
At the beach down, down the road
With brown and white sand mixed

Africa is a dream
Waiting to happen
Hope of the generation
A scenic beauty of land and nature

Africa is my home
The hills of serene Ovim*
And the wild catfishes
That move about kingly and fearless

Africa is love
Community and family
Desires and joyful times
And the moonlight tales of the town

The Victoria Waterfalls is Africa
…The Veldt, the Savannah
…The Lake Chad and the River Niger
…The Lions and the Cheetah
…The Crocodiles and the Hippo
…The Elephants and the Rhino
…The Baobab and the Iroko
…The Zulu tribe and Igbo
…The Guinea and the Sahara
…The Oil Palm and the Shea
…The Orange and Nile River
…The Ashante and the Boer
…The Yankari reserve and the Serengeti
…The bushmens’ home and the Kalahari
…The amazing wine called mqobothi
…The Zebra and the Ostrich

Africa plays my fancy
And in such sweetness
I love my motherland

Commentary:
Ovim is in Nigeria and the poet hails from there.

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MUSING- STARS

The rings of stars

Shining gleefully tonight

Reminds me of you

My innocent one

Thoughts fly about

And in my lonely web

Your memories are caught