THE BEAUTY IN THE DARK
Last night I felt The Beauty in The Dark,
Warm whispers felt upon the mystery of a stream,
And in the stillness of the night,
I kissed the moon,
for lost children wonder upon the valleys of this earth.
Last night I swayed amongst the rivers of a life,
And through the thunders I found your smile,
But in the silence of your eyes you said goodnight,
And in the richness of your grasp I felt a cry.
But Africa,
In the spirit of your song,
I knew your shadow,
And in the richness of your grace I took that train,
for the howling drums in my mother's backyard
Awakes my spirit,
And in the corners of your eyes,
I have shared a story ....
A dream ... A Life ...
But now it is dark, and I cannot see you,
And the voices from my elders begin to drown,
Now it is late and I cannot hear you,
For time seperates the marshlands of this open forest,
Where the breasts of this earth
Feeds the souls of my many brothers.
Tonight I drank music in a foreign lake,
I sang history on an empty shore,
And when I danced the trees began to shiver,
For the voices in my dark
Became too dark ... too firm ... too real ...
The night is young and beautiful,
The shadows are still wandering in their hundreds,
From a distance I hear the crows of the cock.
And so I danced,
For in your story,
Life found a new voice
And in your glory hope found a new song.
IS LIFE A POEM
Is life a poem ?
Where do I start ?
The clouds do feed the world with rain,
A token to the hunger of starving plains.
The warm breeze shook the sea,
Change befriends time in a phase of mystery.
Is life a poem ?
Then where does one stop ?
Space ... air ... thoughts ... lines,
Colour awakes to the tune of a melody,
Music awaits the rhythm from the sea.
If Joy is a poem,
Then where does one start ?
Laughter that breeds a brightness, I seek
Sunshine that feeds the evening with treats,
Honey and sugar, a mixture so sweet
And then you sleep, so deep.
Is Sadness a poem ?
When hardship became
Grief ... pain ... fear .... sighs
A gloom that paints the boredom in the sky,
My teardrops portray a forgotten river
And this was the time I cried out ... why ?
Am I a Poet ?
Where does it end ?
Mirrors reflect age and reason,
Moments project the source of a season.
I speak to the trees on a golden morn'
I visit my needs in the heart of a song,
For the heart of my story
Is magic reborn.
If I am a poet,
Then Life has begun.
SOLDIERS OF PEACE
We shall eat Cassava for breakfast
and drink from gourds of coconut cream.
We shall dance in the "Mangrove" naked
With our pockets empty and our shoulders high
The Village died on a Sunday morning.
I still recall the spirit of the cemetery,
haunting the air in blind starvation.
But now ...
We do not need a shepherd to guide
our flock across the delta.
Our future lives in the heart of children.
We are who we are,
A People.
SONGS AND PRAYERS
Oh Lord, this day my flesh is weak.
The pain I cannot bear,
The wandering souls begin to seek
A home of hope and care.
The nights are young, my spirit blind,
The morn is doomed in grief.
My heart has lost the quest to find
A single sacred sheaf.
And then tonight I saw the light
That shone upon my lane.
Its warmth was kind, the rays were bright
And then I felt your name.
My Lord has built a mighty home
For those who wish to share.
So when you think you are all alone,
Call out and he will be there.
FRIENDS OR LOVERS
Friends or Lovers, what should it be ?
The game is over when the day has come.
We have danced the night of a dreamlike session.
You wined, I dined and the show begun.
I drank from a laughter that shed a new light
And I am naked even before your very eyes.
I am restless by the intrigue in the air.
The birds become lawless in their flight from freedom,
As I thrive on a mystery that governs your sight.
And who is this woman that has travelled through hills ?
What is this moment that has left me kind ?
The summer is over, and today has begun,
So what should it be, Friends of Lovers ?
UMBRELLAS AND POCKETS
The skin of the sky is gloomed with grey.
Accompanied by the sobernes of the nervous cloud.
The buildings are militant,
Lacking light and flavour.
It's a city of winds and cold thought,
As silence forbids laughter
In thr cemetery of the "Underground".
From Hackney to Balham,
The streets are haunted with a solemn harshness.
Follow the crowd, but "Mind the gap",
This is London.
IT CAME FROM THE SEA
We have been "fetching" water for many years,
Splashing through showers of heavenly falls.
Our buckets have fed a thousand children.
The local pillar is a home of wisdom.
The swamps invoke a tribal tune,
Reciting the rituals of the listening forest.
There once lived a myth behind a river,
Foolishly floating with passionate pride,
Its mouth sipped the omen
Of the wondering waves,
In calm shores of stable silence.
ONE MOMENT OF PEACE
Every substance is intact
Living through a sequence of peace
Every movement captured
By the raw feelings of self-assurance
I am as calm as the stream
Blessed with beauty and still waters
I shall breathe like a King
Despite the mystery from the grey storm
And trace the pictures of my dreams.
Every seed is intact.
Bones that have felt many places
Coloured with strories untold
Freedom is a home and not a prision
With many more songs and voices
Every substance ...
Every moment ...
And if you listen carefully
One Moment of Peace
THE PROPOSAL
It fely like a Proposal
Or a forum of feelings
Dancing in circles in a passionate park
There was romance by the fountain
And voices that echoed
Within the warmth of the Brixton Winds
And slowly
The air became filled with little flames
Her eyes lit up with warmth
And the conscience of the moon gazed before us
And blessed the night with a signal
This signal gave birth to a homely intuition
Where all that mattered was Love.
PALM OIL AND PASTA
The blend was awesome
A unique potrait filled with brilliant conversations
The boat was empty
Waiting for Passengers that had accustomed new cultures
The Ocean
My homeland of Wisdom
A Parent to many boats
Having sailed through many shores
Before the dawn had opened its mouth
Tonight my lips are sealed with Palm oil and Pasta
The liberal statement from a curious tounge
A tounge filled with oil
Oil that has kissed the skin of the land
Oil filled with blood
The blood of my people
With different strokes but a common cord
OUR SON HAS COME HOME
Our son has come home
From the lost battles in a foreign land
Where the snow has choked the night
Through the bitter streets of loneliness
Our son has lost his head
And forgotten to walk with grace
He paces round the room
Dressed in doomed disgrace
What was fire has now become water
What was rich has now become poor
Our son has forgotten to dance
Like the noble masquerade of the fire forest
Our son has forgotten to dance, and pray and sing
Through troubled moments
He has been poisoned in his sleep
By a group of Gentlemen
Our Son has forgotten to be
An African
PICTURES AND SHADOWS
A day before our meeting
I sat in our rom and lit a candle
And when I slept
I dreamt of Pictures and Shadows
Pictures painted with subtle smiles and mellow voices
Shadows spelt but fading from a distance
I dreamt of passion in your palms
And the sweetness of a trance
Of messages printed in the wind
But waiting to be shared
And statements And signals
Prompted by the very eyes of two strangers
A day before our meeting
I sat in our room and lit a candle
Lying beneath the warmth of the naked wind