Country not so big
Good stories you can dig
Folk tales so fascinating
Full of compassion and inspiring
Our sizzling temperatures
like the month of August
on our skyline above the clouds
Swimming with the pigs
dolphins, sharks and stingrays
in our crystal seas
Sunday strolls
on our gorgeous sand banks
and surprising boiling holes
Extravagant boat cruises
to Rose Island
and Blue Lagoon Island
Shaking up to Rake and Scrape
and Goombay music
in our streets
Feeding the taste
of Goombay Punch
and Sky Juice
on our tongues
The sensation
of tropical conch salad
and coconut tarts
filling up our guts
Listening to folk tales
from Bookie and Rabbie
eating flour cakes
and ring playing
on our Out Island playgrounds
The 80’s and 90’s she rocked
Flawless piece of tender hope that always settled in her strong heart
Trees she climbed, folk tales she told and the heart she won,
Is the treasure she hinged onto us,
Pretty, courageous with a golden heart lustrous soul
NOW GONE,
Leaving the violets’ withered,
Innocent laughter and mesmerising songs
in a void.
But a smile she left.
A vestige
For me to discover and for her to shine brighter in the sky.
Khar!
or
An alkaline extract!
my mouth drools
o! momma
everytime I think of the dish
whether it is the beloved
amitar khar (i know as papaya khar),
tiyohor khar (i know as cucumber khar),
khar dal (i know as khar with lentils),
not to quit
sometimes with dry fishes or meats
dish itself is the contentment when served
i call it as 'quintessence of Assamese Cuisine'
elixir from the ashes of burnt dried banana peels
hey
when imbued
the khar dish with platter of steamed rice
whether i am glued in Assam or anywhere on this earth,
my heart's cravings...
portraits the way of a yarn-
'the viridescent melody muffled the white snow mountain dance in folk tales'
o! momma
khar with some rice
Woman with a heart of gold
Strangers intrigued by the stories she told
Many skeptical of her extravagant folk tales
Women draped in honesty all of a sudden
Influential femininity changing the mold
Long ago,the guinea fowls congregated
Clourfully and innumerably
And sang sweet songs
And played in the savanah
They sang for the for the antelopes
To leap and dance in the beautiful grass lands
The farm boys listened and danced too
And their hearts were merry
At night around the fire the folk tales were interesting;
The wild dogs barked ;
The nightjars called peacefully;
The owls clamorous,booming hoot was heard
The starry fireflies flashed in courtship elaborate dances
But the conflagrations came
And swept across the grass lands and bushvelds
The axemen were merciless ;
And by their millions the trees were severed
The poachers were ruthless
And the animals wild knew not more peace
The guinea fowls were poisoned
The nature loving farm boys beheld
All this chapter in heavy hearted silence
The guinea folws and other song birds
Shall never sing again
And the times shall never be better again.
He whispered sweet folk tales of his days of yore
.........daddy
He signed my name with non erasable ink, in soothing letters
......daddy
He opened links for me to be linked to him when he traveled far, on his business trips
.....daddy
He promised me of places to go, life of a party and happy
of meals that could heal and seal hunger games
...daddy
He filled my wardrobe with minerals to treasure, sensual clothes to wear
How could I not dare
When love was sweeter than honey
When money was bigger than buddies
Sugar daddies waiting, watching
For those naive village girls
Secondary school girls
In the streets of Nairobi
In their big-ticket cars
Honey daddies, telling their tales of lies
My guitar sings, it’s reverberating strings; dance with my fingers.
My dulcimer cries and whines; telling folk tales, centuries old.
One with the strings, their harmony brings elation, to my soul.
What do you say of me ?
When ladies meet and throw up their men,
What do say of me? Who do say I am darling ?
Do you tell them what my bed life looks like?
Do you call me german machine or trojan ?
Who do you say I am darling?
A care free man of highest order,
Rascal with little or no time for details;
A defiant, leftist or nonconformist;
Tell me darling, what do you say of me?
A country side man that moves not with time,
Whose best tunes are oldies or folk tales
Who do you say I am ?
A rowdy one that throws here and there,
Who searches for socks in north and shoes in south;
Who eats before tooth brushing or shower,
What do you really say of me sweetie ?
A nonchalant that shaves only when being told,
Who seldom polishes shoe or changes bed spread;
Who do you say I am darling ?
One that doesn’t pray in the morning
But jumps out of bed like sparrow out of nest;
Who does not pray in the night
But just retires to bed like cock to cage
Tell me what you say of me,
Who do you say I am darling?
heirloom roots dart unto tropical spaces
seven thousand islands stitched by dainty laces
where ripples of meadows form formless
there, lovely women gather milkfish with kindness
of gumamela leaves sun-kissed, peach-dressed.
On tinted valleys, a gathering of eagles astonished;
forests of green brush coconut - combed tresses
and temperate sky curls into sunset wishes
while crickets are led to peaks of tobacco embers.
Billowing grass huts cling to the clang of village pails
as serenades of tanned guitars speak of folk tales,
till rustic gaiety shifts rice grains open to gliding
unto coastlines made of Asian waves rambling.
A paradise on miles and miles of Pacific heredity
her limbs swaying into pearl necklaces so daintily,
such movement my lips burst of hibiscus seeds
a grandeur spread on a carpet of ancestral beads.
This is my morning and night broth, my daily gland
miles of guava trees dwelling…my birth mark, homeland.
©
*gumamela—a hibiscus plant found in Asia
* my country is the Philippines
SKAT's MY LAND IS MY HOME contest
by nette onclaud
Swallows framed on an evening sky
Thatch roofs singing a lullaby
Children's eyes set catch the stars
Old folk tales for tomorrow's scars
It was all there then
And perhaps is happening there again
The village around the log fire seated
Children in old ring games repeated
Since the first wattle hut
With lime-daubed stone gut
This is my Knoxwood, my memory
The page printed with the tapestry
Twittering like swallows in the air
Lamenting my exile and my despair.
It wasn’t till sleep's midnight
that I heard the down-pouring
of day fade-away, only
to give-in to a gospel of rain.
Struggling to re-live folk tales,
mortal owl and pot of porridge.
“If you can see what fills you up,
you can drink from Nature’s cup.”
Looking over the edge of earth,
listening to the waterfalls.
Watching the lost ships fall-off
and asking if I should give-in.
And there, just outside of Spring,
two pink rose buds opening.
As a slivered moon sings,” Winter
has not turned-over His reign.”
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