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.
Every mother's prayer calls home
in this hut
morning smoke billows upwards
holes in the door and roof gasp
a mother's tear-streaked face
over the burning coals
empty clay pot
who will provide enough food
today?
Ahead, the wet dust on the paths
it's hard to tell whether it was last night's rain
or a drop of blood
but the remnants of water on the road
and the remnants of light in the vision
seep into the womb
becoming pus and blood.
Children fall asleep listening to stories
now they rub their eyes
to ponder
that there is no more fairyland
no wind
to carry them away
and if they try to stand
their heads hit the black sky
their eyes burn
their hands burn
their stomachs burn
are they roasting themselves?
A voice rises up
is it from the sea?
from the valley?
from the mountains?
from the storm?
from the wailing of many voices?
it continued to soar into the sky,
but in the trees,
the branches
and leaves remained motionless.
Smoke swirled like any other day,
only the mother slowly lifted her face,
tears streaming for a moment,
and the children peeked out again
—and again.
Atambua—Indonesia, July 9, 2026
Acrostic THIRST
THIRST dances alone on the empty road
HUNGER steals breath while dust chokes every step
IN heat, the child crawls as the Nile shook
ROTTEN crumbs clutched tight from snatchers’ hands
SILENCE breaks when empty stomachs cry
Decoded message: Thirst steals childhood away
437.
Our Father
Our Father, let Your name be honored
Let Your kingdom be savored
Let Your intention be fulfilled
Let our stomachs be filled
Let our sins be forgiven
Let our temptations be taken
Let evil go away!
-12/15/2015
(Dumarao)
*44th Daily Reflection from Catechism Booklet
Johnny Appleseed
said, "Hearts and stomachs, apples feed."
A fashion icon, he was not.
He wore upon his head, a pot.
372.
The Prayer of a Warrior's Heir
Oh Father God, this is the best time to make me a millionaire
This is the greatest moment to be merciful & fair
Merciful to the one being thrown into lion's lair
Fair to the one who cannot escape the snare
Consider this not a temptation nor dare
So with Thy miracles, I can gloriously share!!!
Listen to the Prayer of a Warrior's Heir
The grandson of a soldier allied to those with golden hair
Whose national emblem is still under our care
For their country's our jewel so precious & rare
Whose relation with ours no one can impair
Although our system is corrupt & unfair
Prices going up from veggies to fare
Stomachs are empty, pockets are bare
Yet the aristocrats' banks eternally glare
Glaring with gold they're reluctant to share
Where is your Christianity? Where is your care?
-07/11/2015
(Dumarao)
*My Prayer Poems for Ultimate Victory Collection
Animals are nutritive friendly foes.
They are by God's authority subdued.
They have been source of unexpected woes,
When no proper active measure accrued.
Of them, we find rich foods flavored enough
To bless our darling demanding stomachs.
But as time passes by, hunting gets tough,
As feral soldiers keep tight their barracks.
For games, you also search for survival
Through worthwhile charms; cage wild game like capon.
Be careful, you: also versa rival.
Loose guard and turn the game animals feed on.
Hunting is a commemorative job,
Beyond fresh fleshy games to feed your gob.
Moonchild
I held him dying in my arms
As he whispered hoarsely
‘Don’t let them forget;
Remember me
And show them how wrong
That right can be.’
In a second he was gone
His place removed
From the table.
No one would ever know
His talents or how far
His influence could have gone.
Perhaps as a physician
He would have healed thousands.
As an agrarian wizard
He might have spared Biafra
Those swollen stomachs.
He could have found the True God,
But like billions before him
He was sacrificed
By the manipulators of destiny:
The Apache chiefs on the hill,
Braves dying.
Generals in the command post,
Platoons slaughtered.
The Judas goat
And always the 300 Spartans,
The Light Brigade and Pickett’s Charge.
The shield, to be protector,
Or the death slab,
And more await
Packed in the pens of town and city
Like so much cattle
Awaiting the word of the manipulator
Clothed in the worn-out
Hole-ridden mantle of freedom
And another handshake
And another tear-stained kiss
And another ‘We’re proud of you boy.’
And another ‘You’re doing a fine job.
And another medal.
And another flag
And another and another and another ...
Church Christchurch once torn by earthquakes rugged rips
Where satin dark descends on sandy shores
Sweet lady of the nighttime skies and dawn
Still holds the broken dreams that men despise
Yet from the shadows dawn of broken time
The lady starts to grow again in form
New buildings climb on what was the broken past
New dreams begin to grow from broken hearts
The lady of the night still shows the pain
Some buildings still hold scars of broken pain
Those with wealth can dance upon her shores
Well others sleep on roads of broken nights
With empty pockets cold and shivered plight
For both may see a different vivid dream
A necklace of the stars is seen by some
Well others live with empty stomachs hum
I hope one day the love will grow to action
The people that have money will invest
Creating jobs for everyone is best
I love the trees that line your rivers banks
The kindness of some hearts still have my thanks
Men like nights wait turn
Of morning to come
When dark shall return
Light, bright sky succumb
Men like foods wait not
Of favorite, be served
When stomachs get hot
Solid don't get reserved
Men like water flows
But never rush through
In haste, thirsty hose
What hasty throats chew
Men like our Tóbi
Don't care to share us
Lunch not enough to be
Food without a fuss
Men like our Lateef
Stay calm to watch peace
And tease in relief
Softly mix apiece
Men like our Idris
Don't want an android
To capture notice
Of moment enjoyed
Men like our Wems
Have to add beauty
With simple poems
iPhone false duty
Men like mornings grow
To keep living well
Not until stars glow
When nights are like hell
The is nothing more interesting, than nature
From carefully studying all the animals
That call it a home
Mainly being from the tiniest animals, to the largest
From the predators that feed on the meek
As they spill blood all day long,
Just to feed their offspring’s
While filling up their stomachs
From the Herbivores,
That mainly graze on the brown grass
Which is signaling end of the Summer season
And awaiting the beginning of the Winter season
Funny,
How the plant’s leaf color’s, will change
From the attractive green color
To the unattractive brown color
Meaning the leafs would be dry
You squash a leaf using one hand
Then blow Carbon Dioxide directly into your hand
With the hand wide open
It release the squashed leaf
Into the cold and harsh air
Within an instant
The squashed leaf will fly in the direction
The Carbon Dioxide blows towards
With only just that!
We can therefore say,
There is nothing much more interesting
Than nature
The night slowly unveiled its meek presence,
One final call from nature its essence;
When lullabies awaken some from sleep,
While others conjure softer naps to reap.
The moon and stars had just chased out the sun,
Their twinkles the clouds could no longer shun.
The sky now dons an airglow-twined garment—
Its twilight robe left sombrely dormant.
The chirps and croaks were hymns for that silence,
Both friend and foe in ruly defiance,
They thrilled the dark as they all soared and flew,
Unbothered, though their seasoned songs weren't new.
Sharp jaws filled stomachs yearning to be dared,
Yet weaker grasps let certain grubs be spared,
All in the race to beat the sunlight scare,
Before the night leaves nothing left to share.
The man in the elevator said, as to everyone's dread,
their stomachs all dropped, and the lift suddenly stopped,
"Let's philosophically think, though our situation might stink,
we don't have to work for our boss, that dumb jerk".
Yet, privately, he thought, "I've got a great spot,
next to this buxom beauty. You bet your patootie,
I'm happy as a clam in this tight jam. If we're rescued, I don't give a dam*".
Children of the Gaza,
How do you strive to survive?
Children of the Gaza,
Why aren't your struggles amplified?
Children of the Gaza,
Can you hear my voice?
Children of the Gaza,
Tell me, are you still alive?
Young souls, being killed everyday,
"Babies aren't meant to be here", they say,
There's a horrifying, terrified sound 2 year olds make,
Hearing the sound of planes.
Being fed water instead of milk,
Where has your baby formula been?
Being thrown bombs over your heads,
Is this how months olds are supposed to be fed?
Voices struck in their throats,
Bloody and hoarse,
Lost in the noise of destruction,
Panic attacks and starved stomachs.
What did they do to deserve,
To be born in the middle of the war?
They sat holding bottles
In their hands
And armpits
Pouring mouthful
Of liquor to fill
Their hollow stomachs.
They gazed at each other
As cat and mouse
And spoke a lot of
Inglish with slain syntax
To devirginate
Their motherland.
The two drunkards!
Spoke of a nation's illusions
And the wilted state of
A nation's elites
Raping the cultural norm
Who raped the temple?
They said something
About Lubowa hospital
And praised the Bus Kingdom
For Grazing well the Gen z's
Digging the tax hole
Who murmured a secured Future.
They gazed at each other
As hare and hyena
And shakily gasped for breath
Of the holy bribe paid
For their nocturnal duties
Poverty pasted on muzzled faces.
Oh, the two drunkards!
Finally hit the climax
And roared at each other of
An accusation of not belonging
Reached for each other's neck
To strangle a refugee within.
© Ankwasa Harlord
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