Pages

Amarachi


As of late
I evade in leopard-like craftiness,
the dictates of shore-lined plankton,
whose metamorphic expanse 
has unearthed into
mudskipper on sand,
elongating into edacious
serpents that strangle grapevines.
Ethereal wind-lashes,
downpouring hail,
emission of toxic gases
and industrialized waste—
does not only graze
Sycamore skin,
Or severs the limb
of a blossoming rose
in a guillotine of a rusted
fence—It resonates
 more audibly—drowns
the already murmurous woes
of a world hurled within the throes
of a sheet-metaled inferno.

Everything within the darkness
resonates subtly yet thunderous,
distant yet approachable—
the stars peppered luminous
and innumerable across the cosmic pallet;
the sails of passing clouds
invoking notes
of coastal breeze;
the Areca palms
swaying across the mauve
 and indigo canvas
with flower-bristled efficiency.

The moon’s pulsation
illuminates the hills,
yet everything on land
stumbles in smoke and shadow;
man, and beast alike.

But as for you, child—
Your face radiates
like burnt and polished mahogany;
melts the aortal byways
frozen since man’s inception
from clay and word.
Your oval eyes, dark pools of song
and purity, are tunnels into an
endless journey within the gyre
of space and formation.
Your mirth, your wails, those
“coos”, those “gee-gees”, and “ga-gas”—
etch their imprints
onto Acacia trunks, Diamonds,
and Cowrie shells.

The towns,
As they are,
are void of music;
just columned and erected
sepulchers of silent bones.
Jazz and Soul never touched its dirt
and the Blues overdosed on H some time ago,
but hums faintly in her origin of silt, roots, and pearls
awaiting her cyclic resurrection.

Until then
I seek solace in your birth,
praying the Earth
shelters you
in tubers of fruit, herbs, and peppers—
baptizes you
in the ocean’s mossy brilliance.


--Bilal W., Adult