Seven grandchildren, each studying their own science courses
I understand some of them, but am fuzzy about the other sources
astrology is being studied by Ellen, yes astrology
I think of her when I look into the sky; it interests me
Geology makes sense for Brian, he has collected rocks since five
But cryptology for Landon does not make sense or jive
He was never one to keep a confidence or demand privacy of any kind.
Biology makes sense for Dorothy, she has a plant-producing mind.
Drake who adores animals is going into thematic zoology
An herbalist, Jackie is studying of course, herbology
What about psychology? I ask, this was my study of choice.
No, I’m going into glossology, said my sassy granddaughter, Joyce.
Pathology? Psychology? Technology? I ask them and they laugh.
So many ologies, and none of them are taking the exact same path.
My wife had caesarean birth
In the maternity full of dusts
And brought forth a bouncing baby
But the baby was a pouncing flu
Tears roll twilight to twilight
The doctor tests the urine and stool
The herbalist prescribes bitter herbs
But the baby is still a pouncing flu
One can see the eyes yellow
And the body losing turgidity
The tongue turning like sour milk
And all I am told is to be patient
My baby bounces with running nose
But maid minds only baby’s milk
And mother of the baby slumbers
Saying “the baby can survive flu to flu”
Onwa:
If there are wings that would bring you down
Tell the bleeding dusty earth that watches me
I choose to dance to your tune, a rhythm of hate
Caved from the poetry of a scarlet Poe-tree,
Bottled in the prime heart of lonely princess.
Anyanwu:
If the Eagles still face you eyeball to eyeball
If you still torment the earth to a fight of lost
With a sagging song sung through the nose
Let it be known to you that I choose to dance;
Dance alone to your tune, a rhythm of sorrow.
Ikuku:
If you still toast dreams here and there,
Happily in a lustful loveless zoomed mouth
If you still breath venom like an old serpent
Caressing the sky of a honeyed young agony
Know it that I still dance to your tune of pain.
Ugwu:
If queens still come to you for fertility
If the herbalist still worship you for Herbs
Let my journey over the snoring sea be told
That I choose to dance again to your beat;
A heartbeat that govern many treachery of hurts.
Onwa: Moon
Anyanwu: sun
Ikuku: Wind
Ugwu: mountain.
(C) John Chizoba Vincent
Voice Of Vincent 2016
Night of solstice
On a hot and humid June
The covenant of sisters
Gazing at the signs from the stony mound
On a night where comets fled the sky
We are sisters
We are Kindreds
Sacred daughters of Ophiuchus
Healers from the stars
Healers of Aesculapius
Snake charmers, doctors, herbalist
The thirteenth zodiac from where we came
The serpent staff we are led
We came to heal man
©2016 Bonnie Jennings The Thirteenth Zodiac
I look out at the world with eyes of green
people think it's weird, they say it with a smile
I answer with, mother nature chose this colour
what else is there to say.
green is the powerhouse of strength and power,
in the world of herbalist and they have so much to choose from,
green is for go,
go forward never look back,
proud to be green, in all ways.
The Herbalist,
Stood before his wall of jars,
Mixing concoctions,
For the local folks who came
for health, despite wrongful laws.
For the "Jars" contest Jan 19, 2012
Born dead put in a bucket,
Bellowed and got himself saw,
Tetanus at 10, bloody bad luck
Pus filled veins had for sure,
Doctor’s would take his leg off.
father said “no good , no more,
one legged horseman, is useless,
might as well be dead for sure,”
snatched from the Mungindi hospital,
went to a herbalist, Chinese lady’s door,
she medicated, doctored the cripple,
back on two legs now for sure.
Doctor’s teeth gnashed,they knew it all,
Said "he will die of Tetanus poor boy,"
Alternative medicine was on the ball,
They had to eat their words, some call,
The bitterest taste of the gall.
Nancy Jones
Contest Name A Toothful Ode
A re rose doth comfort a faint heart,
When love lingers 'ere life departs.
Inspired by the 1597 quotation of William Langham ,herbalist.
The day you cut me wide open,
I bled tears from a hideous face
And pure prisoned blood from my sealed benevolent cocoon.
I was not as pitiable as pathetic purple onions,
So you wouldn't weep for me.
The ruffled white sheets mourned with still ripples,
For I was a cruel painter, who have painted her
With the colour of doom,
Red.
You troubled my secret sacred place with your ritual.
You were the herbalist who reared the fatal **********
With the beak of a razor.
And then,
You pierced me,
After idiocies of incantations.
I was gullible,
Because incantations are meant to be charmingly convincing.
And, perhaps,
It was much more than your words that lured me,
So I endured the pain,
Because pleasure is greater than pain,
The act of two, greater than one in disdain.
This once I was lain,
Was the day you cut me wide open.
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