The Beauty in the Dark
Last night I felt the beauty in the dark,
Warm whispers spelt 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.
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 Mothers 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 separates the marshlands of this open forest,
Where the breasts of this earth
Feed 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.
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.
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,
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.
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 melody,
Music awaits the rhythm from the sea.
If joy is a poem,
Then when 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?
Mirror reflect age and reason,
Moments project the source of a season.
I speak to the trees on a golden morn,
And examine 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.
The Rise of the Fallen Eagle
Upon my farm you rest your head
But stumble upon the grasslands of my home.
And the shadows of the walking skeletons
Are felled by the cold presence of the subtle wind.
The forest mourns,
The river cries,
And the arms of the Iroko that houses my soul
Are shattered by the living forces of my people.
O Motherland, so rich and pure,
Where is that house that once fed the world?
Where is that water that once left me proud?
I have danced within the marshlands of the open forest,
Hopes set upon the glories of ones living harvest.
My father laughed yesterday;
His voice cracked through the woods
And woke up the sleeping panthers of the green forest.
The table is bare and empty,
I have slept within the valleys of the dogs,
But shall sleep no more.
I have wept within the prisons of my skin,
But shall weep no more.
Come with me to the backyard,
And let me show you the pleasures of the wind.
My home houses the sweetness of the meekest of spirits,
Where passion and laughter retain the moments of the chosen lamb.
The pillar in her past was once a story,
For there once lived a mountain that was all alone,
And the scars from her misery regained a life,
As I have once shared the troubles from that haunted home.
There once lived a shadow behind a hill,
And the passion in its presence began to sing,
I drank from a river of much despair,
And as I drank, the leaves began to shiver,
As I swam, the wind began to speak.
She drowned into a world of bleak music:
She sings of hope upon the fortunes of a fertile plain,
She dreams of luxuries amongst the fairness of unspoken warmth.
There once lived a shepherd beyond her dreams,
But now her living teardrops are a haunted home.
The Beauty Beneath
From Mozambique to Guinea,
Green tables spread out its clothes of grass.
Palm trees stare with able intuition,
Revising the romance of raw rivers.
The Tropical walls embrace a kingdom,
Fresh as the Nile, strong like a tree.
The Sleepless swamps are wild and restless,
Not like the plains of the noble north.
A stage so dry, yet wet with answers.
An Ancient Art covered with sand.
I reach for beauty from four ends.
Nature is a palace with a blue sky,
Gold dust and green waters.
Poems (c) Tony Tokunbo Fernandez