Dream from the Calabash

Danger gently looked in the eyes of a dark shadow


The old man’s palm wine fumed with delighted smile

Gravity caught the attention of the palm branches

Smocked Lamps could be spotted at the village’s widow

But the furious dust spoke in silence for a while

Night breeze verge the feathers of the lad’s chickens

They were homed in a net basket, with excellent lice—

It wasn’t a tradition —a culture of distressful happiness

Happiness, captured by the brilliant sound of virgin’s dances

Why couldn’t the eye lid receive siesta instructions from his nature?

May be, the fireflies held the attention of an illumine creation

It was very fresh; the sweetness was inspiration to his gray hair

The calabash mirrored his memory with dusting stories

—About how he taped, hunted and weed with rounded achievement

The salt in his sweat applauded his efforts with narrow arrow

Birds lyric were music to babies attempting busy sleep

The fire wood magic spattered in primary colours

Wonderful colours, smugly sending out pleasurable odour—

That was when I watched my first bamboo car move with careless passion

—As my mom’s proudly stood at a distance hut smiling without action

Young man’s virgin were waiting in the banana shrub

Shrub in which love could reconcile with plucky fear

It was a world where wisdom with own to aged—

Wealth, to the energy of hard work

And love, to the deepest care of honest desire

The darkest part of the night was in amity with the cloud

The due escorted stripped footed dances with drowsy laughter

Grimly smock forbid liquid with revengeful annoy

—As standing breast, so tempting, bid hairy chest good bye

This was the youngest beginning of my future’s past—

A brilliant culture to which all African dreams are born

Dedicated to the forefathers of Liberia


Joseph M D Johnson, Expert POET

Liberia
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