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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Written on 24th September, 2025. Placed first in the poetry contest "December Days" by Karen Jones. Placed eighth in the 2025 Poetry Marathon Mile 19 by Mark Toney. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Christmas is coming again I'm already dreaming of my village, Once a year for a month Yet the feelings last decades long that adulthood struggles to erase. The excitement of swimming in a pond, With our nakedness brushed by fishes we dare not kill. And our mouths gulping water with roots of water lilies that taste like bitter leaf. Yet we never fall sick. Then we go back home with pots of water with our laughter echoing our goodbyes, through the dark night that cut short our fun. Leaving what was robbed from us to linger as dreams. Surely it's not the pond that brings the fun, but the innocence of our childhood that the water conveys. We talk the language of conviviality that our swimming pool at home never teaches. Not that the village pond can teach— but it brings together true friends, sharing the same colours, language, and culture. In its depth we learn the language our parents once spoke. As they built the camaraderie they wove into our laughter. And the farms too. Otherwise we would have believed that: yams and cassavas grow on tall trees like mangoes and oranges. But the farms teach us at harvest time that goodness is nurtured in the ground before the fruits of its happiness shine for our eyes to appreciate. And the grandmas especially, they make us believe we are small gods: who have to be placated with whatever they desire, so we feign illness to get more of the care. Trust our grandmas they never got bothered by our indulgence. They loved us deeply, until their final breath.
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