Long Raffia Poems
Long Raffia Poems. Below are the most popular long Raffia by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Raffia poems by poem length and keyword.
Under the tree in Africa, we sap strength
from the songs of the sparrows before sunlight.
as we walk to the farm, the
morning breeze brush our
body from the billowing branches.
We pick up our hoes and cutlasses
and keep our basket and calabash,
the big Agbadas of the elders and our little
catapult hang on the bole as we plough and plant.
Under the tree in Africa we relish
the radiance of reality as we rest
after the rigor of raising ridges.
we break the dried branches to make fire
to roast the harvested maize;
we stroll with the spirits as we slumber,
listening to the whispers of the wind
and wake up to feast on the roasted maize
with some cold water from the serene stream.
Under the tree in Africa we share
the shield of shadows,
shying away from the sun
as we walk back to the village.
We use our traps to tame birds;
making some meat available mama's,
meal by moonlight, throwing stones at some
ripe fruits we have a feel of freshness
and get some fruit for friends and family,
we get locked in luck as we get lots of grains
and goodies that gives us passion and pride.
At twilight, under the tree is a place to be in Africa,
the elders drink from the cup of culture.
Passing the calabash with love; there is enough Palm
wine and bush meat to go round,
quarrels are settled, feuds are finalized as the echoes
of the evening resounds.
The day's delight are shared, friendships are
found and formed as fresh fragrance flows.
The children chant with vibrating voices, moral
melodies are mimed with clapping of hands under
the tree in Africa.
Graceful games and spirited sports go on as
communal creeds cruise in their conscience.
The elders feed their seeds with the water of wisdom
as they share folktales and facts,the children are charged to
be charming as they listen to the tales by moonlight..
In Africa the women sings with virtuous voices
as they make mats, beads, basket and raffia
under the tree.
nursing mothers keep their sucklings on the mat
for the cool breeze to caress their soft skin,
at twilight, women roll out local pots, mortal and pestle,
to prepare pounded yam and melon soup for their household,
as the food-is-ready alarm sounds, folks and friends
gather to dine and wine as the moon peeps through
the leaves under the tree in Africa.
In ancient land,
—A realm of kings and queens,
A tale of courage, sacrifice, and love, unfolds unseen.
A noble hunter,
—Moremi, with heart of lion’s might,
Became the cherished queen of Oduduwa’s ancient light.
The kingdom thrived
—In commerce, wealth, and sacred power,
But shadows crept from darkened woods, in haunting hour.
The Ugbo hordes,
—With raffia guise, brought terror to the fray,
And women, children, borne away, in night, by fear were swayed.
A desperate plea,
—A mother's heart, to save her cherished land,
To river goddess, wise and old, Moremi did command:
"Great spirit!
Hear my humble cry!
I vow to pay the cost!
If by your hand, my people's fate, from doom, is not yet lost."
A plan was forged,
—A daring scheme, to free the stolen kin,
The queen, in beauty, as a lure, her freedom to rescind.
Within the Ugbo king's dark realm,
—She learned their secret ways,
A wary smile, a whispered oath, for freedom's dawning days.
Her essence strong, her courage true,
—She made her daring flight,
Back to her love, her cherished home, to face the coming fight.
With wisdom gleaned,
—And heart of fire, she armed her faithful kin,
To face the Ugbo hosts in battle, a victory to win.
The kingdom's wrath,
—Like storm released, did vanquish cruel Ugbo raid,
And in the aftermath of strife, a people stood, remade.
A nation forged in Moremi's flame,
—Her love and sacrifice,
An epic tale of ancient days, where honour paid the price.
Yet, fate's cruel hand still lingered near,
—A debt yet left to claim,
For in the halls of ancient gods, great vows remain the same.
To Esimirin's flowing depths,
—The queen did journey forth,
A mother's tears, a broken heart, the cost of love, and worth.
Her son, her only cherished child,
—The spirit's price, now due,
A sacrifice, in times of old, as gods and mortals drew.
Moremi's song of courage,
—Love, and tears for love foresworn,
Echoes through the ages past, a tale of Yoruba born.
In halls of legend,
—Where heroes dwell, and tales of valour shine,
The queen of courage, heart of gold, eternal shall enshrine.
Moremi, mother, lover, queen,
—Thy name shall never fade,
For in thy sacrifice and love, a nation's soul was made.
(Dedicated to the memory of my mother Catherine who died June 3, 2011 and was
buried June 24, 2011)
Sleep. Wake. Sleep
Sleep on empty stomach
Food and liquor make the journey
Eat, make Epicurus laugh double for once
Holiness! Is it not about angels and fruits
Eden has grapes and bitters
The tempters line the trees
And chirpy birds blow the flutes
The tempers with long tales and the dragon
There is a golden chair and a golden crown
And a bsket of flowers waiting to waive you in
There the master's table you'll see in the morning
Ulcer and glaucoma have no role to play
So you must eat, launch
And lunch to roost
There Grace waits for his owns
If indeed in the father's house there are many mansions
Why could Richman not easily find a room
Sone, from the master's table think
Analyze, princilpize, study and report
Stone, think as you walk around the dais
Analyze as you sleep. Principlize
Sleep and Sleep
Then look back, look to the corners
Look at the dome and compare with heavensgate
Take note the colors of the priests here and compare
See the dark waters, you did not see there before
See your scions on the front seats
See me, Franco, with the cross of attrition
Flung on me by brothers and sister
See the masquerades, musketeers
See my men dressed in raffia for this Elizbethan epic
See the men of the nights and those of the days
Filed on the right and on the left with Infant Terrible
See the near monks minus opportunity
Hiding their faces and long ghoulish tales
Rolling out muted laughter or pardon
Singing accustomed sonorous tunes for the great
See our uncles sibblings whose finest tears I never saw until now
See the candor and the incenses that have prevailed
Are these not enough comets that the Lord rewards
Yes. So then, the sound of the trumpets
The trumpeters are your seeded three clans
Charging the heavens in swaggers
Blazing forth, in pomps celebrating life
Dancing this same song of homecoming
For Stone, the cornerstone of many parts
Cargo of our latest argosy
Berthed at the Terminal. Farewell mum.
Form:
(Dedicated to the memory of my mother Catherine who died June 3, 2011 and was
buried June 24, 2011)
Sleep. Wake. Sleep
Sleep on empty stomach
Food and liquor make the journey
Eat, make Epicurus laugh double for once
Holiness! Is it not about angels and fruits
Eden has grapes and bitters
The tempters line the trees
And chirpy birds blow the flutes
The tempers with long tales and the dragon
There is a golden chair and a golden crown
And a bsket of flowers waiting to waive you in
There the master's table you'll see in the morning
Ulcer and glaucoma have no role to play
So you must eat, launch
And lunch to roost
There Grace waits for his owns
If indeed in the father's house there are many mansions
Why could Richman not easily find a room
Sone, from the master's table think
Analyze, princilpize, study and report
Stone, think as you walk around the dais
Analyze as you sleep. Principlize
Sleep and Sleep
Then look back, look to the corners
Look at the dome and compare with heavensgate
Take note the colors of the priests here and compare
See the dark waters, you did not see there before
See your scions on the front seats
See me, Franco, with the cross of attrition
Flung on me by brothers and sister
See the masquerades, musketeers
See my men dressed in raffia for this Elizbethan epic
See the men of the nights and those of the days
Filed on the right and on the left with Infant Terrible
See the near monks minus opportunity
Hiding their faces and long ghoulish tales
Rolling out muted laughter or pardon
Singing accustomed sonorous tunes for the great
See our uncles sibblings whose finest tears I never saw until now
See the candor and the incenses that have prevailed
Are these not enough comets that the Lord rewards
Yes. So then, the sound of the trumpets
The trumpeters are your seeded three clans
Charging the heavens in swaggers
Blazing forth, in pomps celebrating life
Dancing this same song of homecoming
For Stone, the cornerstone of many parts
Cargo of our latest argosy
Berthed at the Terminal. Farewell mum.
Form:
*SON OF NOBODY*
I was born in the Trenches
In the walls and roof with no fences
Drank from the seasonal rivers
Trust me we knew no povereties
We labour to live and not to gather properties
On the water different catch was our only envies
And when father went hunting
Meaty dinner was sure with my aunties
I was a son of nobody
And i lived with no enemy
Aside hunger I had no worry
Simply respect for my elders
My care for my little brothers
Much love and prayers to my ailing mother
And cold fear to my scolding father
That was my life, a son of nobody
Known by nobody aside my clans
We speak less in in the midst of numbers
Contented in my little
I craved nothing much than stomach
Take no candy from a stranger
Just be nice and pleasant
For the good you do to others
And the pain you inflict on the vulnerable
You'll live to reap the reward before you die
The simple life rules mama taught us
I was a son of nobody
Living to wear danshiki
Dancing with the masquerades
Our joy at the new yam festivals
Dusty feet at the market square
Stamping to the rhythm of the ancient drums
Cheering to the women in aso-oke
Wrapped round their bumpy chests
That was my joy a son of nobody
Under the thatched sheds made from raffia
Where mosquitoes bring no fever
But the angers of the gods pollute the streams with cholera
In my beautiful village where snake venom never kills
But the abandoned diety can cripple the children with polio
Tales of our grandfather's told at moonlight
Hero that fell the elephant with his cap
That was how we wrapped our days
Son of nobody had his lullaby
I'm just a son of nobody
Living my life with no worries
Dreamt of a day I'll be somebody
Meet a princess from ivory
Make plenty children of my own
Whom I'll tell my stories
Here I am a child of many glories
As told in the witch doctor's story
All the talks and thoughts feel funny
Because after the story of the big glory
Here I'm still a son of nobody
As the day dusked yesterday,
The deflowered sun shone down
with those eyes of a goldfish
'KATH’, got a light; 'EER’ lit a room;
And ‘AH’ illumined the night
No sound of a thing in your presence.
No bullet whirr, no horn blares
Not even the tick tock of the clock.
And thoughts of how good it is
To smell life and to sniff an ambush
on a friend
Newly met under an unsolicited
climate, crowned it all.
As bloated black eyes remained
promptly nudging on her fancy face
The blink of her eyes lasted on her
glance like a mirror
Reflecting how lucky Africa could be
To breathe this crevice of word out
in an ancient city
For pleasure, treasure and tender…
And how good it is to every ear…
Those cheeks in the dark that
dazzled joy and sorrow betwixt…
Is these all a happenstance…? I felt
the drip! Drip!! Drip!!!
Of the succulent drizzling rain, whilst
seated under the shade of the home
of sanctity
And the thought that someone has
to helm the hound of your name for
real, dawned on me. At night I
dreamt without sleeping; sleepless
thoughts of insomnia ravaged me,
yet my intellect hatched; and
became a slither of beauties of
mangoes, pineapples and roses
likened to you.
Yet how good to prick the secret fruit
to speak and felt her cajoling voice.
In my muffled thoughts, I slew my
intentions in cold blood and rolled
the inconveniences of those
moments in a raffia mat and hid
them in a secret blanket.
The cool weather speaks gale and
blew its wind from the north. I
shivered beneath my ribs, yet
unnoticed to her. I stood and smiled
in espionage and intrigue.
Whilst enduring the stark misery of
the chilled weather. It was over and
out, yet her name blots my thoughts
until cock crow…
A man who is yet to find for himself a maiden
Absolute success yet, is he to find.
If a sailor on his compass, found
A permanent route without a storm enclosed,
Thither eternally, his route may be.
A maiden, a sweet thing is
And you, my found maiden of course is
Gibraltar of America, many call thee by
But---------
My maiden laid ashore the golden Sea,
Yore of days, I’ve adored thee.
Tho’ a pauper boy me
---------still, a string of topaz for thy neck
In the stormy and rainy African nights
I labored hard to inherit.
O fair maiden of mine, I respect thee.
A man who respects a lady not
Shouldn’t be blessed with a lump of gold
For he’ll never know its worth,
When a lady,
The unique eximious and exclusively expensive
Heavenly precious stone
--------he had failed to treasure most.
O Quebec! My maiden laid ashore the golden Sea
I’ve always dreamt of hugging thee
Hoping when to Africa, with me you had come
In my mud molded room,
Behind my old raffia patched door
--------on my new wunwuned mat, we’ll both lay;
But now, old age is what I rapidly approach
My head, gray hair will soon arrest
I fear that,
Kissing thy red lips, I may never get to do
And lo! Marrying thee, that as well, I may never do
But even in my heart, when in my 6feet home
I finally lay interred,
The memory and love of thee, still I’ll bear.
My maiden laid ashore the golden Sea
--------incase thy lips before I die
I never get to kiss,
O Quebec! Do Remember Me When I’m Gone.
SATIRICAL: SATIRIZED EUPHONY
Hissed her path to say No
As amulet dangled on her' dandled
Tis so sweet to trail the forlorn
As no help came to a hearty hut
On the rafter was a treasure kept
To a loned little hut in heart of jungle
Whose roof raised and dimpled the raffia
Oh the taste of thy loin in abject senescence
Could have risen over to thy spur, twilight!
To the cast of thy shadow clothed by Sunset
If thee ! Little in our heart; you can remain!
Remain lots more for a thousand memory
Would have climbed the hill to balcony Eastside
Sat our mind to watch of thy loss in a ruffle
Oh ! To Ayede the colossal quorium ; herb arrays
It was a pleasure; dressed in the ragalia of moon-dance
In no time, the moon danced
Called the hale and hearty
To the festive centre of living
Dressed in all forms of grandeur
If we return thy essence
If we can return thy licence
Relive relive live and relive
The old days are set to be back?
There we can see the hut in teeming rescue
See the village square on a vibrant display
Reposition the jungle to a centre of living !
On no doubt set in quantum effect, euphony!
Wear the garment to center of gravity
Around the corner close to pyramodal pivots
In dance, high in spirit to the beat of time
Even if this time is interspersed on euphoria
Sucks the shin onto her golden anklets
To terrain the path where to kiss the Sun bye
Lettuces found on path to fetttled garden
To give a welcome relief to her longeth despiration
Overjoy not in the surplus of thy making
As none can tell when naturale will strike
To undress thy order of beauty renaissance
As it unveils the surprises of the cons and suburbs
Built with the measurement of The Alive
For those once here but no longer thrive;
One J saw for a dog that didn’t ask for interment
And it was some lavish entertainment!
In the past, bamboos strung into a box
For some innocent guy or consummate fox!
A wiring round it of raffia fiber
It’s eventual occupier, The Subscriber…
Easily costs more than other carpentry,
Often hesitantly purchased by The Peasantry:
Usually, when seller has jacked up the price,
From the bereaved buyer wanting to gain thrice,
…Because now he’s still choking with grief
Preferably wanting bargains to be brief…
In recent times, no longer feared
Not by even the kids now reared,
Many of it on commercial display
Seeming a big toy for a little play.
Rolls tears down cheeks only in tragic context
And only then, a sorrowful river shorn of pretext
Authentic scenes of on lookers Mortification,
As, it buoys a man of peculiar qualification
Or that of lower integrity
Who had spent a fortune on his infirmity…
Now more than ever a political tool,
Supposedly delivering popular opinion pool;
Easily foreshadowing the disgrace of a rival party
And it’s members advising to stop feeling hearty,
The customary motive, Electoral comedy
Still sometimes unleashing evils defying remedy.
Memories of those nights at Ekpoma
Cling on to my dreams like bees to raffia palm
Seeking for food to be produced
The Muse said we left many issues unresolved
While we sat around the well at my abode
Pondering what the Age demanded
Uwem was there as were Taye,
Alexis, Broderick and Stephen
We all voiced our consternation over
The non-reforming crusader
And the dispiriting creed of the times
However, we bore no armour to confront the statutes
So, we suppressed our artistic urge
And swallowed their decrees
Like tasteless morsels of cassava
But the Muse insists we were armed with the word
To combat those unfit men who like lice to hairs
Cling to the throne of the masses
Because that was what the Age demanded
Many seasons later, greys upon our receding hair lines
The Age still demands that we speak against
The putridness in the community orchard
Because that which emerged without sourness and carnage
Now festers like a worm-infested sore
In answer to the Muse’s prompting
Troubadours, Brothers and Friends of my youth
When shall we then converge again
Like we did around vessels of sweltering morsels
On the floor of my abode in the little town of Ekpoma
To restore the beauty that the Fathers dreamed of?