Florence has warm blood
and cowrie teeth that seldom clatter,
even in the chilled, fluttering dance of July rain.
She’s an element of Shiloh
in weeping quest of a promising Samuel,
and for this,
walks through long and clammy paths in July rain.
July, a month of sacred yams,
with breast tubers and milk tendrils,
befriends Florence,
an eloquent lamenter,
the quintessence of languor,
this day of streaming showers.
I have often had her tears
on my palms —
tears that sob gently, lest the temple yonder
hears her and pronounces them FAITHLESS.
Florence, battered in the rain,
frazzled by extreme caution,
with ambiance of July
and naivete of the grey ewe,
has prayed for her breasts, for her milk
and for the growth of her stunted soul.
I, too, have prayed —
for the rebirth of the seventh moon,
for Florence and her bedraggled sorrows,
and for strength on behalf of our weakened village.
In Biafra, when we drank from the tilting
cusps of dank leaves and washed with the spittle
of cassava,
the sun scorched like hell.
Añuruedoahu*, the oasis of war, like worldly
cowrie, stagnant, yet devoid of rural fetish,
calmed our nerves and built in the altar of
our souls hopes of answered prayers.
*A mysterious stream in the poet's village.
Upon the crest of a whispering wave,
A love letter sealed in a bottle's embrace,
Tossed by the tides, an age ago,
Lost in the depths, where mysteries flow.
Within its parchment, emotions reside,
Ink stained with feelings, impossible to hide,
A longing expressed in words so true,
Captured in time, like morning's first dew.
Conch shell trumpets a tale of old,
Announcing love in echoes bold,
Carried by breezes, a melodious call,
Love's proclamation, enchanting all.
Cowrie shells shimmer, treasures of the sea,
Symbolizing love's currency, pure and free,
Gifts from the ocean, precious and rare,
Like the depth of affection two souls share.
In a world of fragments, memories cast,
Love's legacy endures, forever to last,
Upon the crest of each rolling wave,
Echoes of devotion, eternally brave.
At the beach, digging beneath the pier
harvesting minute shells;
sharks teeth and all sorts of goodies;
I make jewelry you see; Cowrie earrings paired
exclusively with brown Tiger-Eye; a tasty treasure,
eye candy of a semi-precious nature.
Naticas, Tulips, Conch’s and Crown’s
paired with Smiling Shark’s teeth,
for the Seafaring Pirate Effect is
inspiration, for my more aggressive muse.
I package my haul in an azure blue bandanna and
hand-to-brow, I look upwards at a winging gull,
in the sunlight above, feeling the
breezy-brush of her wings upon my face.
Cooling waves, embrace my feet as I saunter towards a
favored spot, up the beach; the surf’s song can’t
possibly be any sweeter to the ears; I hear it
whispering, “peace...release...peace...release...”
I let go of every bit of stress and embrace
ocean’s mantra.
Time to sun, a towel upon the hot sands
I don my sunglasses and sunscreen;
tune to my favorite song on my iPod and lie back,
feeling Old Sol’s cordiality, upon my skin.
Days like this are pure,
mind ambrosia.
Idol is there seated plotting
cowrie shells baptized dollars
cow-hide suffocated with air
comfort women in their best
Cambridge fraternity with honors
commander with his platoons
sky-men in their spaceships
class room wizards with sleepy eye
Champagne , coca cola, carrots
These are the dying gods
that relax on high thrones
intoxicate conscience
roll away the Bible, Quran
and call on humanity
worship me, me, me alone
my kingdom I’ll give to you
His skin is coated in red ocher,
making it hard for his enemies
to notice him midst termite mounds.
He wears a headdress of cowrie shells
and ostrich feathers, for his battle
is a special day like weddings
and initiation.
His eyes remain as steady as the Sun,
reflecting greatness he sees lying
before him….
……………………………………………………………….
The lion's fur is wildly free in disarray
proudly displaying its untamed nature
to the approaching hunter under the hot sun
The lion yawns blissfully unaware
of the battle that's about to come
to an ordinary day like any other day
a lazy afternoon nap
Yet the lion's instinct is as sharp as a knife
picking up movements in the grass
with its tiny rounded eyes...
A Collaborated Poem with Teddy Kimathi
Copyright © 2016 June 18th
His skin is coated in red ocher,
making it hard for his enemies
to notice him midst termite mounds.
He wears a headdress of cowrie shells
and ostrich feathers, for his battle
is a special day like weddings
and initiation.
His eyes remain as steady as the Sun,
reflecting greatness he sees lying
before him….
……………………………………………………………….
The lion's fur is wildly free in disarray
proudly displaying its untamed nature
to the approaching hunter under the hot sun
The lion yawns blissfully unaware
of the battle that's about to come
to an ordinary day like any other day
a lazy afternoon nap
Yet the lion's instinct is as sharp as a knife
picking up movements in the grass
with its tiny rounded eyes...
(A collaboration with Angeline Haikutwinkle)
How beautiful is she!
Her teeth are white,
sparkling in the Sun
as she expresses her joy
in her heart with a beautiful smile
Her eyes are as enchanting
as no story that has ever been written
or a painting that has ever been drawn
Here long, black hair
is decorated by cowrie shells
and river flowers,
making her to look like a goddess
Her skin is soft
and flawless, with exception
of a beauty-spot on her chin
How beautiful is she!
Head honcho, forever bristling
Bleached exterior, this mask of
countenance
Princey, let me kiss you, my liege
We are only Men in Black -
Chieftain for the cause
Priest of neoclassism
Maestro of Propriety
You are.
He stamps and huff - truth or
farce?
This I do not know - I heard
Still the serprent, however sly leaves a print
It slithers - yes, and leaves a print -
Wiil Imposer
Chief Impostor
Usurper
You are.
Head honcho of feline wit
Your back never rests next to our
feet
This bloated extremity of covetousness
Is bottomless, an abyss, a vacuum -
Pathetic dominus
Bringer of Locusts
Cowrie counter
You are
Truly you desire this:
My lips pressed to your rear
My face mopping the earth
My nails digging the crust
The Goddess' emissary
Meister of duplicity
Exalted Prince
You are.
They tell me I love you.
They say that when I laugh with you;
my eyes shine like cowrie shells in shrines,
my cheeks dimple in gaiety,
my pulse thumps rapidly like the drumbeats of the gods.
They tell me I love you.
They say that my legs tremble like a virgin sacrifice
when I meet you.
They say that my body sways towards you
like a falling leaf drawn to the ground.
They tell me I love you.
But what saddens me shadow of my dreams,
they don’t tell me you love me!
The little kitten pawed at the ground
Dug out the earth
The way its mama taught it
Then it squatted
And as though recalling something
Looked around
To ensure no eyes were watching
Its eyes met mine-
His, cowrie shaped and green
Mine, big, brown and curious-
And wide eyed
Perhaps horrified
It jumped away
And went round
The far corner of the house.
I feel the hand of the invisible smothering my skin
The rule Maker up in the sky
Lull my heart of a better tomorrow
With a make-belief smile i retorted
But the departure of grandpa
In September drained me
If my head is sitting well on my neck
And if the birds still build nest on my head
It was in the September
That a pack of owls invaded our hut
I was just boy in those days
But i could decipher a woman from a girl
So i was not a boy
But please don't tell papa
Lest he will invoke his iron fist on my coconut head
Maybe, he has coconut head also
Pattering feet all in the farm
Aunt and i contesting a bowl of eba
Suddenly, the rain began
It was the rain that ruined and rent my heart
Watching him groaning
Watching him beckoning for help
In a sharp glance, i look into the sky
Does the rule Maker care ?
I moved swiftly into my room
Emerging with a machete
To fight death
But the dreaded monster left with grandpa
It was in September
Today, i stood before his tomb
With gins, ginger, garlic, and black goat, and cowrie
Last night he requested for all these in my dreams
Because there is famine and economic crunch were he stays.
what you do not feed will burn itself out
disconnect ....
from malcontent
...cool removal
just bouncing light off
like a cool moon.
gasoline
...searching for a match
step back .
what you do not feed will burn itself out
the sacred, exquisite paradox
too busy making love to unworthiness
tangled inside your own entrails
mis-reading the message of cowrie shells
what you do not feed will burn itself out
moving back into the abstract
fodder for the storm
thunder rolls
birthing rage
...caged
so I move into blue
....lighter shades of cool
..waters to douse the fires
the ire swells and flows
..vacuums of light and Indigo
that cool place
..of fierce grace
(c) Katherine Wyatt 2010
Nine rivers you swam
Bang, into the marathon
Now six rivers you row
Into the eternal riddle.
Thunder frog-jumps out of mouths
Rain splutters from pale sockets
...yestersay.
Now I adjust my backpack
In memory's frigate.
I try to smile
For I am not alone-nor ever will be-
You answer me in the tree-tops
And in the cowrie-dance:
I peep into tomorrow today
I crack the kernels
In the barns of years and years and years to come.
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