Let the tongue dance
without false music
playing, with no stage set.
Let the tongue dance.
It won’t be cut off
should you let it dance,
But like a lamp in the dark
it will reveal the evil concealed.
Let the tongue dance
with no polished heels
or painted lips, let the
tongue dance in nudity.
That all may see with
no hindrance of any
nature. Should your
tongue hold truth and
healing in it, oh thou
beauty beneath the sun
do let it dance.
Let me greet to your night
While singing softly a song
utter love that we create together
Let my fingers dance on your face
Open the strands of hair
that closes your forehead, your ears
Allow my lips to kiss the beauty of your soul
Until the golden red hue breaks
In every corner of our heart
Let me light the furnace
to bring back the warmth
and burning all the miserable of the last story
Deborah (Resting Time)
SHEPHERDS OF DECEIT
Promises are been served on a broken plate, our hands are out stretched to receive in a haste.
As joy finds its root in our heart.
Their smiles, are a mask. Seeing
deceit in their hearts, a hard task.
Their words are a blindfold to our
eyes, we fail to see the lies they tell.
They offered change, a yearning
of our broken hearts. We gave them a chance, on a golden platter. Oh Now change has crushed our hearts
With lying lips, they held out brooms, to sweep out corruption. Oh, but they are the corruption, that we need to sweep out.
Their kleptomaniac fingers, never
go to rest, but remains continuously
at work. Our economy’s back, is now bent and almost on its knees.
Shepherds who keep their flocks
away from the greener grasses, are
less of shepherds. Our daylight, is
turned a dark night.
Our dream land, now like a doom
land. Hunger has now found a bed
in our homes. Our palms, now a
pillow for our sad faces to rest on.
We watch the change, changing
things for the worse. How long,
do their words, remain a blindfold?
Oh I weep for our fathers land.
© Joy Okwori
A league of Fishermen going out to sea through the Brass River on a rainy
November morning. I reminisced with nostalgia those adventurous days of my boyhood, growing up in the mangrove creeks and serene Atlantic coastline and foraged on these ones bounteous waters of fishy harvest from Foropa to Odioma. I stood on the jetty listening to the howling wind, the chorusing waves sang in strange tongues. I stared at the large expense of the Brass River and exchanged a brief dialogue with the creative spirits of the river. What the river said is not meant for uncultivated ears but the avatars of in the shrine of creativity. I reflected in cold delight I as paddled the weight of my memory to the days when I was a fisherboy guiding my net up and downstream same river in my aunty’s big canoe gliding through the riotous waves from the oil rich Nembe Creek. I always shout at the oil men roaring down on Oil Lions, Modant Marines, Barges, and tugboats, humming down with barrels of our oily woes.
I am not romantic
but I am enigmatic
I do not bring roses
but I bring fine proses
I do not bring dinner on candle-lit tables
but I bring heart-soothing desert songs to the table
I do not sprinkle petals on rainy nights in the bedroom
but I bring jasmine fragrance on moon-lit nights to the room
I am a wandering Bedouin with no tent in a fragmented world