REFLECTION 27

life is but a stopping place,
between the womb and the tomb
a resting place along the road
the road to sweet eternity

we all have different journeys
and destined paths along this road
our experiences also differ
but in them we learn lessons

what these lessons mean
we never may know till we reach
our destination where our tears will melt
and who we are is revealed

and when we meet He who sent us
we'll claim a great reward
according to how we faired
with the crosses in our experiences

so, until our journey nears its end
and till we hear the angels sing
lets face each new day as it comes
and feed on the love left by our fathers

Somewhere in my Memory

long before I was born
came a Dog barking howling
it came far from beyond the ocean into our village

it threw its spider spun
a web without fire-escapes
over the doves playing in the village compound

it was the harvest season
with its smell of food and drink
music and the doves dancing so innocent

the Dog leaped on the doves
tore their feathers till they were wingless
it tied them and led them like a sheep before the shearer

down into the belly of the Monster
into the darkness of loneliness
amid chilly dawns they tossed beneath caves of waves

the Dog brought them to snowy fields
of cotton tobacco sugarcane
the Dog made of then a frozen scarecrow

the cold cracked their limbs
in their indignation little boys
threw stones at the frozen scarecrows

the taunt and hate on the streets
they sunk deep in the soul and their tears spiced their soup
their pain sweetened their bread

even when the snow melted they are nobody
on the black craggy hills they perched
calling the good Lord in Blues far from the peach tree

somewhere in my memory
I quiver when a little white shadow coughs
to remind me of the fishhook on a tree in Alabama

Lost to rhythms of sorrow

last night after the welcoming dinner
I knew we had given up the wind of music and
melodies of sweet songs of Home

I knew
we had sold beyond bounds of sorrow
our minds, our souls, our hearts
but
somewhere inside me
I remembered the story told of the coming of a ship
that carried away into captivity my people
and tears slowly tracked down my face
adding to the salty sad sea in which
our joys have long been drowned

deep inside these bounds of sorrow
I remembered the mountains of wild imaginings
I nursed many years ago about crossing the ocean
and they came crashing down
with an illusion-shattering bump
and I watched in wonder and silence

it was in these bounds of sorrow
I dreamt of Home
soft dreams about families with royal hopes
regal dreams of young and old elegant faces
I still dream of the rich grasses of the veldts
and the long walks on village lanes with kiths and kinsmen
I dream too of the goats and sheep of my Grandma

I dream of all these
and run out of tears of sadness and sorrow

I have grown sick of these songs of sorrow
I want to cross the long rivers of solitude
to sing new songs of joy
and dance beyond the rhythms of sorrow
on village lanes with kiths and kinsmen

Where Once We Stood and Laughed

it stood here
near this Baobab tree
what yesterday was the Hut of the gods

on this ground we stand today
stood that to which you and I
side by side brought our offerings
shot our eyes to the Sun
and saw in our newborn faces
a shine the sun could not replace

it was here our tears that fell like rain
dried into hopes and dreams
it was here we learned to cherish
the Hut that fires heaven’s love on us

now
where once stood the Hut
are grey smokes of sadness
a spiral of ruins with piles of crushed bones
and where once was a Baobab
is a river of blood in a valley of wild winds of regret

why did we burn the Hut
sold our hopes flamed our homes
and melt our past in the stranger’s Wine
beyond rhythms of sorrow till we begged to surrender
and in our defeat he ravished us
writhed us and now we stroll
and lick spits between his toes
around the roundabout of doubts and insecurities
carving affections in unforgettable words

and now driven by hostile Winds
we have stopped at the Traffic Light
moaning beside the roaming stick of Time
at the Hut now we come like warbling robins
in yawns and stench with our ghosts in satin sheets
standing upon the ruins of our ravished selves
carrying a teary tale on our lips
beyond every human touch
of User-Gods that lost us in the quicksand
of hidden Laughters

in my silence
I sometimes wonder if
while tip-toeing in a fog of Distance Footprints
we have not lost the Voices of the gods
the humorous voices of the Ancestors
and dress ourselves in wrinkled skins
of the User-Gods
carrying writhing souls in our armpit
smiling heartily with the User-Gods

can we come away
from the fog of distance Footprints
can we stop to shift the blame on the mice
and crush our lips and spit the reek
remove the lid and sing a song different
because the world will never hear us sing
inside the coffin six feet under the ground
can we go to the colony
to the country club to the mental asylums
and there retrace our Steps
beyond the rhythms of Sorrow

by tomorrow away from Medusa’s Love songs
let us gather near the Baobab again
let us come to where once stood the Hut of the gods
carrying our dark tears in our palms
let us bring our faint half-beating hearts
to walk tall to wake the sleeping dead
let our quivering lips shout in their fading tunes
and roar into the lion’s ear
such spirit will bring heaven’s lantern
to shine again on the grain of life
left on the slopes of where once stood
the Hut of the gods