The moon and night plays

Yells, cries of children disturb the nights silence
In the moonlight they dance, they play in the distance

Casting shadows upon the lonely tree’d pathway
Tumbling on sands, caring not for neither man nor scorpion
They make figures, people and tall castles of clay
Happily they yell, desiring nothing under the queer moon

Meanwhile the wind blow, the mosquitoes flee
Wild trees swerve like a mad reggae dancer
Children noises mix with the dancing windy trees
As the young night went black and darker

The African Dawn

**
A slope of rounded hills
Black against the horizon
Threatening the sun with its fierce thrust
With thin clouds streaking across the sky
**

The clouds underbellies glow reddish hue
The morning warmth fighting the heady moon
Wide plains stretched, savannah grass paradise
Sometimes lonely trees stand with the yellow grass

Ancient, raw, the scattered lights slowly gather together
The city below, and the hills standing guard like a soldier
Listen now, the Tsetse may disturb mornings peace
But the heat will come soon with her perfect grease
The road are shaded by thick groves of Eucalyptus and Vines
And the human settlement; houses, huts are all intertwined

Smell of ripe fruit romance the market ways
Tomatoes gutted, grapes squashed on the clay
And when the hills let the sun quietly rise above them
It was gold- unexplainable, like the lifecycle of a worm

Again, like the humble Queen risen from a sleep
Came the sun from the lands of the unknown deep
Smiling at the ones she had left to her solitary slumber
She leaves all, fauna, flora to a graceful wonder

Now there is light, the brown Earth bright
And on all things old, the sun shines her gold

An African Lullaby

Come closer, come hear the song I must sing this night
Come let us sit under the mango, let us enjoy the moon light,
The sweet breeze that seem like that of the quiet riversides
Which flows freely, running in peaceful haste thru the wild

The cold day took her toil on our strength
But the night fire hands us some warmth
Lean back, let me pull your hairs again
Close your eyes now and just listen

Listen to my croaky voice sing of the cute little Nightingale,
And of the Rose flower which blushed for the Blue whale
Nothing paints more pictures but a pretty imagination
Now close your eyes, imagine me singing an old song

”Once upon a time…!” that must be the sound of sleep
Alas, do not retire yet, my stories are a generous heap
The tales which you fancy most when the moon is half
And the song where the moon got eaten by the tall giraffe

It is a Good Night Africa!
You have a wonderful night rest too!

Art of the Mind

Colors are exotic, beautiful when they are seen and ‘felt’
Shadows- shades, the blue skies and the sun when she set
Wandering bees, yellow and black buzzing about
The black wasp making holes by the wood post

Camels stand like mad men who either forgot themselves or their ways
On the sands, come views of mixed soft silt and reddish clay
The dungs of stray animals, the boar which found solace in waters lay
All constituting strange hues, so also are the beautiful or hateful words we say

The light, solemn sweet aura of the oceans blue
As the white waves rise and fall into the bluish hue
See the wheat fields, the sun flowers happy gold
When cut and in dark evenings of the market be sold

Trains horn and cockcroach thru hidden grey tunnels and hills
The farmers gather the browned seeds into the huge farm mill
And all these while the memories of colors pass on a sweet feel
Never to be forgotten, but for moments which stand not to be seen

Amuse: February Harmattan

Harbinger of Sahara news, king of the queer dust I hail you
Your entourage of heavy sand storms and dunes
Display her works of art on our glass windows and faces
You give us wonderful attire, a ghostly look

We wonder, we make guesses of why you love the dust
She paints everything; flowers, careless food, the pond
And worst of all, the innocent faces we carry about
But when your strength goes, we have air void of your asunder

The feet crack, the lips go extremely dry
No one knows your origin, even the nomads
The camels, the horses smell you and grunts hard
And when your dust meets our water, it gives another scent

Where the rivers flow, you carry your dust to
So if we escaped from your the city’s airy dust
We run into the embrace of the river mudded clay
Trees stand aghast, confused of what is becoming

But alas, you come and go
You and your cruel crew
So where next are you going to,
And why must you paint us so?

Musing: Sweet and Sour

Bent, folded I returned to my own self
Baking in the euphoria of failed love itself
Shivers accompany thoughts, rented worries
Revived just to welcome the sad, old self
Moments are lost when smiles were love,
When winks, faces said how much I cared

Transform me back, if I have no soul at all
Let the toils of failed love refresh my hopes
Let me live to love without remorse

A muse: Sunset

Shadows
Fall behind the mud huts
They paint soulful images,
Like the web tent of a black widow
Hanging like a carefree skeleton
And the brown stains from hands
Old or fresh which design the walls

Silhouettes
Fall behind the palm trees
They draw strange figures,
One like the village masquerade
which dance heartily on happy festivals
The other like the mad man
who travelled all about the hamlet

The sun travel home after the days work
And all we have become is an airy evening