Son of the wind

*whirling *
Amid straws of harvested rice i lay
Not much a thought in mind
*whirling*

Then the rattle....
And in came the winds from the eats,
Blowing past the hue a burnished sun brought,
Curling and whirling yet gentle....

And in it the little demonic grains,
Of a sand rushed,
Scathing and tearing,
A little feeble me....

Yet they said,
A son  of the wind i be
Yes they said...
He is the son of the wind,
He comes and goes,
Never a night stays....

And though they see not,
In a scorching cool brought
And though they feel not
A expiration brought
They cry
Son of the  wind

Son of the wind

Modernity?

Pardon my nativity,
Am a village born with less creativity,
But alas i know a rose,

Yes yes yes my friend,
Modernity perceives me as such a foe,

But then would i be wrong,
If at such i say she looks like a crow,
Painted on a dampened wall?

Her eyes shaded,
Her lips duracoated,
And oh those Dumu-zas sheets on her head,

She dresses like a camel,
Bracing for a sandstorm,
She walks like a hyena,
And talks like a hurt dog,

City girl they say,
City trends they say,
City life i hear,

Civility....
If such is...
Uncivilized i remain.....
The village boy,
The village bred...
Yes i the villager....

THE BLACK CHILD

sunrise,
sunset,
another day for a black child,
scarred by the african earth,
tanned by the sub-saharan  sun,
yes my friend,
this tone i coat,
this skin i wear.......

they call me darkskin,
and hence quote all problems,
darkskin problems they say,
darkskin troubles they say,


the more they talk,
the less they know,
i aint blessed with shoes and shorts,
no do i eat from plates with forks,

my meals are GOD sent,
my dreams but gold dust,

and yet i try,
try to tise above the shacks,
try to fly up the ranks,
 flights of a black child