Long Cockerels Poems
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Must have been six when I encountered my first carnivorous reptile
Walking up the up the hill with my brother I spotted what looked like a snake
I'd heard of snakes, from my mother's tales
I saw it, I wasn't sure whether it was a log or what..
Then I took off running as fast as I could
My brother said it was dead, lifeless
For a long time my brother loved retelling that story
My mother's tales, of walking cockerels wearing red high heels
Of long big snakes with their tongues vibrating and hissing
Of cats and how they see demons, hence "the black cats phobia"
All these representing a face, an evil force, a witchcraft. ..
The many warnings:
Never shake their hands
Never go to their house
Never eat their food
Never befriend their kids
Never talk to them
Never look at them
Never take their gifts
I remember how one time we burned several sea shells
Because
"Sea shells have bad spirits and that's why they make that sound"
And this was done far from the house, in the presence of a pastor
Sometimes in the dark, in fear, I see snakes
Either behind me when am walking in the dark especially in the house
Or at the corner of my eye, I may see some figure
And sometimes when I sleep, I have scary dreams of snakes
And as I have grown older, I've come to interpret these dreams as a sign that someone in my life is deceiving me, someone is trying to hurt me or someone is trying to take from me
So in those times when I have those dreams, I always pray
Being a Christian I understand there are forces out there, of dark and light
Shindwe shetani
I once made a man see stars, read the state
of his synthetic, wrinkled suit back to him,
I watched as it melted.
Served him the world on a mirror—
Cracker Barrel plate of desire, he said.
It was just crispy bacon with sides of himself,
I didn’t even mention I was a constellation.
He called it love when I gave him the check,
named his myth, grown boy’s story
common as milk teeth on breakfast meat.
In the end, I held his face and called him
broken, lonely, afraid,
tired of being too much and too little,
gave him his change.
They’re all broken and lonely,
like dropped eggs are useful breakfast
in the right setting; murdered bird in another.
Sometimes, they’ll marry you—
just for discretion, if you’re good at it.
Even Sisyphus took a wife,
perhaps anticipating
base needs at seventh inning stretches,
fifth amendment opportunities
in front of elders.
It’s the same eternal story.
When the tally’s off, or the ham has unspiraled
it’s best to shoot straight into the chafe,
a breast pocket underneath the collar bone,
there’s always room to talk in half-truths until
you find the trigger that stabs them, right
in the detail,
see the blood pumping from plate to vein,
though it was the sausage that was raw
and they ordered the bacon,
it’s best to play it safe, and direct attention
to the source wound—
blame the eggs, stay in the kitchen and live
to see the cockerels cosplay as roosters, save
the frying pan for another day.
Is it the songs of the chirping bird in the morning?
Or is it the sound of the crickets at night?
It could be the timely crow of the village cockerels in the morning
That has awakened the residents for yet another beautiful morning?
Could it be because of the village mongrels that are barking furiously as they chase the
wild rabbit to the nearby wood?
Or it the mooing and the bleating of the sheep as they demand to have their middle belts
filled?
It could probably be the noise of the school children as they rush to school
Probably it is because of the hooting of the milk collector as he comes for the morning
milk to take to the dairy?
Is it because of the fresh produce of the greens?
Is it because of the numerous expanse of the land that the eyes can not have to its full?
Could it be because of the naughty neighbors that will listen to your silent conversations?
Or is it because of the early neighborly visits just when the "morning devotion" is at its
peak?
Could it be because of the neighborliness of the neighbors?
Probably it is because of the 'friendships' behind the banana plants near the house.
Or it could be the whispered sweet nothings under the tree just outside the gate with the
moon smiling over the young lovers
It could be because of the 'accidental' pouring of hot dirty and foul smelling water to
the shadowed forms near the banana plant?
Or am i just blindly in love with country life?!
Form:
Soft somnolent skies have ceased seething, for day’s nearly through,
while winds echo whispering thoughts of returning to you
and heavens throb, pulsing and bleeding in crimsons, once blue -
their passions, like flames, fill my veins as you pass into view.
The breeze holds her breath as you touch, then embrace me anew
and smouldering clouds withdraw, blushing, then paling their hue.
The twilight is painted with wandering dreams of your charms,
so close your eyes slowly and slip into sleep in my arms.
The pendulous moon appears, sweeping the fog from up high
distilling the drops into notes of a hushed lullaby,
their quavering tunes spinning tales which amaze, mystify,
while tremulous stars fling a fire that fevers the skies,
for stories they tell reflect love as revealed by your sighs -
their fury is burning, alive in the depths of your eyes.
The twilight is painted with wandering dreams of your charms,
so close your eyes slowly and slip into sleep in my arms.
The shifting shore’s moaning, seduced by tempestuous tides
which flow with the rhythm of flesh as our senses collide,
and quiet explodes as the stillness of night’s amplified.
A lingering kiss bids adieu till the morning breaks wide
when cockerels come conjuring dawn with voluptuous pride
enticing the sun into banishing night, starry-eyed.
The twilight is painted with wandering dreams of your charms,
so close your eyes slowly and slip into sleep in my arms.
Time changes with life and life changes with time.
October grows too old,
Hobbling backwards
With the burden of years,
On the sinuous alcove of time,
Tenebrous and feathery,
Her hidden lamps blinking furiously
At the silhouettes of wasted days.
The wasted leaves of autumn
Break forth and dance down
With the weak speed of burnt confetti.
The clocks go back several ticks,
Schlepping on the tired sinews of
Broken slumbers interrupted by the alarm bells
Which ring up the dreaming souls of boarding schools.
There’s darkness upon the face of the dial.
I wonder how the hourglass fared back then.
Passers-by hasten their questionings ? “Fellow, tell me, please.
What is it o’clock?”
Oh, it is late. Roosting time!
“But why so late now when it smells so early?”
The clocks have gone back one hour.
And so darkness covers the earth for three months.
Then March, the bearer of thirty-one offspring,
Sprints with the brio of a restless stripling.
A Phillipedes,
Running from the sleepy west to the yawning east,
Fanning the embers of dawn as he speeds along.
And light fills the world.
The cockerels record each other's crows
In one-strength choir.
Venus is viewed yonder smiling proudly like a crowned star.
And light fills the earth.
The clocks sprint forward,
Ticking with the pulse rate of Ancient Greek runners.
Spring is the light at the end of the tunnel we know as winter.
I have seen them
strutting like cockerels on podiums
sweating like pigs in their ill-fitting suits
words bubbling out of their snake forked tongues
-democracy!- development!- unity!
I have seen them
lock themselves up in their posh grave tomblike cars,
is it to avoid the dust of the potholed roads
or the sight of poverty ridden comrades
who crawl along the streets like sprayed bedbugs
I have seen them
prancing along the corridors of power
thirsty for more, more and more
always more while their comrades get less
-Salaries – Allowances—Terms
I have seen them
preach peace but sow strife
scream democracy while muffling fundamental rights
promise development while worshiping corruption
I have seen them
torch the nation with careless words
fanning the flames of hatred amongst comrades
destroying – always destroying!
I have seen them
stamped like buffalo herds
on the foundation of the nation
till it stands on shattered and battered grounds
constitution amendments – always amending!
I have seen them
do all these and more – always more
but like a man condemned
I stand on the sidelines
watching—only watching!
The widow
What about the first rays of each dawn,
Does recall her from the land of slumber?
What does announce that the night’s gone
To release her from each night’s cumber?
Owning no cockerels to herald the morning,
With shrill. anticipatory predawn crows
Is there then, a scent that’s adorning
Of dawn, only discernible by her nose?
Awake, she never does lumber about,
As one in the daze of insufficient sleep,
Her chores, efficiently she does carry out;
Her progeny, she must slave for their keep.
Her aching palms, withered and abrasive,
Are blistered in testament to years of toil,
But never a deterrent into being dismissive
Of a menial job, even the carter of night soil.
She’d sworn to never use as the egress-
Her body, from a poverty that’s truly abject;
The goatish rich feeding off her distress
And making her the village gossip’s subject
Her children’s dreams she’d rather marry;
Never by tradition, her late husband’s brother
Forsaken by most, her suffering may tarry,
But this shameful custom, she’d help smother!
The clouds are turning blue;
the grass awaken to the first heat.
flowers smile at each other:
daffodils, sunflowers and the like.
Morning glories awake, stretch their petals lazily
swaying to the morning breeze playfully.
The cocks are already crowing accolades
to the ONE who made all things.
The mooing of cows, among the cattle
clashing their horns, sounding like spears in battle.
The chatter of sparrows, the cawing of crows;
the crowing of cockerels, the twittering of swallows
all cry for the heavens to awaken.
Then the sky becomes tingly bright red,
orange; and the sun bursts out in dazzling yellow,
spraying the world with rays of hope, joy and laughter.
The birds burst forth, and then,
it sounds like morning in the Garden of Eden.
Dew sparkles like diamonds on the blades of grass
all creation rings with songs round about
to the God of all flesh, Creator of all things;
without whom nothing would have been possible.
And then, just as the morning deepens,
Moving caps are seen above the tall grass, going towards the fields.
Memories of death and dark eminence
The long sleep, lingering last enemy
The coldest, lifeless, breathless silence
Ensues and consumes an eternity.
But hark, then slowly, after sightless sighs
The invisible and subtly faceless hides
Like 0 becoming 0.1 and then 0.3
Our own hero, here for thee
Distant in the deep, heralded by birds wee
sweet blue light seeps into the sky.
All is cleansed, to begin again
Reason returns, an ember burns
And then when fanned into a flame
His colors increase, the mystery ceased,
And let light linger from the East,
It comes glorious, gentle, and glistening,
All heaven and earth is now listening.
For Lo: Apollo knows what follows,
As the ancients scry, angels prophesy
Cockerels cry, until nigh the black bids “bye bye.”
Just as night is the mother of day
Never lost along the way
The pendulum swings, the trees sing and sway.
After long drawn shock and sorrow
Dawn has taken the time in the morrow.
I'm a Wood Cockerel
a Metal Tiger's my mate,
which meant for her birthday
five years I did wait.
Then twenty four years
had passed on their way
till joining of species
on that happy day.
Tiger and Cockerel
fur and feather and fun,
in crowing and growling
they can't be outdone.
But nesting together,
at home in their lair,
this cock and his pussy
combine as a pair.
They’re totally manic
mammal and bird,
strutting together
the pictures absurd!
Now that forty five years
has passed this pair by,
their children surround them
and non can deny,
that Cockerels and Tigers
though a different breed
found that love found a way
to propagate seed.
Together forever
under Chinese Moon,
there’s non now are saying
they’ll separate soon.
For a lifetime of living
they’ve shared with each other…
A Cockerel as Father
and Tigress as Mother.
Ivor G Davies