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Frederick Mungo Poem
Oh mother Africa cradle of civilization
like the great trees of our green oceans
you protect your young from this great gale
from east, north, south, west but mostly west
it comes with a force first gentle then strong then stronger
from leaf to stem it sways the oceans
steering our waters to unright directions
it brings it's sand from far away and takes our leaves to far away.
Oh mother Africa cradle of civilization
land of fruits milk and honey
groom your young in your own way
let them know it's not for sale
our dignity, pride and values
but how do you cushion a dying man
how do you relieve a man running after a setting sun
a drowning man will clench a straw
if this he thinks will stay afloat
young shoots find no space to blossom
even in this spacy forest
is this our fault or it it's fault
that seedlings readily embrace the gale
they know the wrath it all entails
but this they say is better than the dark.
Oh corner trees of iroko type
give space for the young to grow
their roots will firm their stems will broad
and this ocean green will stay agreen
heed my advice and pave the way
for if these things are not done in time
your young will continue to embrace the gale
and this ocean green will go brown some day.
Copyright © Frederick Mungo | Year Posted 2013
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Frederick Mungo Poem
I believe in this ghost
because she has no wings
she will stay in her grave
till the digger finds her
she is very real unlike other ghost
flesh like my flesh, bones like my bones.
Sweat like my sweat, and blood like my blood
in this grave, on these fields.
I believe in this ghost
because she is very real
faithful and loyal to the chains that hold her
buried in this place, this grave on these fields.
On these very lands where my fathers toiled.
Grounds of my own, grounds of my birth
a people destined for greatness
with a dream that is but a ghost
buried under these rocks
rocks of corruption, rocks of bad governance.
Rocks of illiteracy, rocks of poverty
many many rocks of other things
these serve as chains across her grave
yet i hold my believe strong
because i know a time will come
when the digger-man will break through these chains
and this ghost long buried will rise to haunt.
Copyright © Frederick Mungo | Year Posted 2013
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Frederick Mungo Poem
How long shall this be
that fresh spring flows to sand
and green fields die of thirst
shallow and deep waters alike have lost their way
for by naturs' design life received is life given
but the sand of the deserts know no giving
all they do is take take and take
and even when they give at some spots
it is for nothing but to take again.
How long shall this be
that the head waters blind their view
and even as the water channels remain clear
greed for power, money and fame makes their blind fold black.
How long shall this be
that young springs don't see the fall
and even those that evaporate along the flow
end up wondering in the hot desert skies.
Flow aright oh head waters of our flow
flow aright through the pathways of dignity
and do your best not to give it up for sink
as you sure recognize the value of your carrying content
for by natures' design life received is life given.
Oh wondering dews in the hot desert skies
come home to fertile lands
through fields of fresh forest flowers should flow
and make our tomorrow from today a better one
for by natures design life received is life given.
Copyright © Frederick Mungo | Year Posted 2013
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Frederick Mungo Poem
These big black birds, eagles and kinds
they fly westward all the time
to lands far far from home
with hopes to find better chicks for fill
but these hopes too have their own wings
so they fly as soon as they perch
to further lands beyond their reach.
So why the journey, why the flight?
Why the struggle on foreign lands?
all for nothing but a winged hope.
Can these fruits hanging down from homeland tress
not serve to keep you fill?
If it is flesh you must have
you the vultures, you the hawk.
You the kit, you the owl.
You these big black birds
that think of nothing but your fill,
come back home and search the fields
like the hens and chickens do.
Copyright © Frederick Mungo | Year Posted 2013
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Frederick Mungo Poem
I blame you for our misfortune
you this parasite of the African dream.
Like a pecker bird on a fragile tree,
you bore through our hope and leave it for dead
and like a gale from the east,
you carry our fruits all to the west.
I blame you with a burning flame
you keepers of our rains.
Like an ocean swallowed by the desert,
you starve our fields of their due drops
and the only wetness they get to know
are the drops of tears and fruitless sweat.
How long shall we go on this way?
We till the fields we sow the seeds,
we water the young with our tears and sweat
on this rough, though and sandy lands
yet when it's time to harvest the fruits,
the rain pours hard to wash them away.
Late rains late rains late rains
you are bad for the African dream.
Copyright © Frederick Mungo | Year Posted 2013
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