The African night goes robust with
silence and attentiveness.
Darkness, grave, deep and merciless,
hisses remorselessly but soundlessly.
The moon is on a visit to her grandmother
Fireflies on bulrushes give blinking light, like exhausted
Twinkling stars expelled from heaven.
Post-suppertime, belching stomachs recline on
Whims of a slow-travelling night with faithful
Silhouettes walking ahead of stalking shadows.
Orchestral insects keep the night company
Folktales steal into this power of darkness —
A breathing nocturnal art with the pulse of
Communal growth . . .
The town crier is abroad
He needs no other identity but his voice,
A foghorn in the entrenched darkness.
Next is his wooden gong,
An instrument of life.
His voice rides smoothly through the night —
At times with punch, some other times
With the sound of glory . . .
And when there’s gloom,
With the sonorous flow of woe.
Swallows careen to cracker crumbs
Left lying near the narcissi.
Whilst a dead friend visits the bedroom
Sitting in a corner
In a perpetual shadow
Rolled up on a death notice
Ripped from the town crier’s board.
Has Hellas come to call us
Back to everlasting realms?
The Town Crier
Miracle Man
8/21/2024
A life long friend passed this past week,
life didn’t offer much making his life bleak.
Ignored by some, many others were empathetic,
unable to do much his problems were genetic.
He never had a job and he was known by all,
not many days passed without this man’s call.
But he was known as our small town crier,
and he knew Jesus, as his daily supplier.
He was always at church each time we met,
many counted his friendship to be an asset.
He loved his phone and if it happened he knew,
He lived a solitary life and now it’s through.
Young man, just try a glass of sangria,
Now, we all can see you are angrier.
Audience is not a ‘a must’ for Town Criers;
Their job can now be discharged by flyers...
One cries too long and one lips get drier,
More pacing about the legs look sorrier.
In some circles you become a pariah,
For being of all things Hollow Wood Carrier.
Yes, you keep that in mind, Prepared Crier:
A town crier’s voice might go higher
But to his critics “A Hopeless Liar”
Or in short, he is the no more needed,
His colleagues in other towns fast weeded.
Sapphire-tinted bells herald life anew
springtide’s dulcet birthstone watch,
omen of fragrant bloom
Posted ; 29th March 2022
I stand on top of a box and cry out
In a world of plastic faces, I find
No one will listen, so I have to shout
And speak to those souls who have lost their mind
They hold anger like trees in a forest
Gave their hearts to a leader of fool's gold
They've become no more than a staged chorus
While given the signs, they march with and hold
They have sold their souls to an illusion
A mirage that glimmers on the landscape
They're told that reason is an intrusion
While the truth is chained and forcibly raped
On the steps where war and blood gave consent
Our flag was torn from the lies they invent
6/20/21
contest Contemporary Sonnet
sponsor Charlotte Puddifoot
THE ZULU CRIER
Where thou thee
Sons of Afrika
There over the edge is a halo
It's coming to crown the world
He who stands wear it first
So rise up my people, my children
For we had long remain knelt to the giant
That charmeleon, Ananse of our indiference
End him now with the swords of oneness
You Asante man marry that Buganda maid
You Zulu landlord accomodate that Fula
Thee Igbo barter with that Nubian
Yee men, men of this land, I call !
All tribes, all caste of Afrika
Know thy neighbour
Break the land's fences down
And travel the sands and the rocks
From Cape Town to Alexandria
From Capo Verde to Eritrea
And share the goodness, tastes of Afrika
Of our new communism
The twenty firsst revolutionary calls
Now, Now, before the sun downs
With joy and pride.
Awake Mama Afrika !
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