The spirit of Africa
is in the thick skin that breaks the mosquito
married by the sun and bathed by the rain
Though dirty but lovely
with a hand-mould of Akpu for my hungry tummy

The spirit of Africa
is in those warriors carved in woods, Amadioha, Sango let’s call few
it’s in the talking drum and the metallic town crier
is in the green pastures
long ago robbed but yet stands
what a loving memory to reminisce

Footfalls by drowning doldrums,
the moon hallowed, cruel, pockmarked.

By the bench a dark haired girl
sings this rite's flow, protean,
wearing a wreath of paper hearts.

The hitchciker circles the dead city
square, tying rubber bands
around locks of her hair,
his dreams lucid and fried,
medium, rare.

Staring at the Madonna,
he has a black eclipse,
fashioning old ribbon clips.

The Holy Hour. Drunk with wine
and picture books,
the moon's ambrosia
misses him at high volume.

Those spring days where we lay in the grass.
Too old and progressive for picnic baskets,
The time of hunter and gathers renewed :
Our loot came straight from the shops.

With big Spring smiles,
we sat astride revision;
intent abandoned as we made daisy crowns,
pulling stems off strawberries.

We plucked grass absentmindedly,
our backs arched in laughter.
We looked stock-photo worthy
in the spring sun.

A deep breath of spring morning air
near cold enough to bring a frost
yet dogwoods are blooming everywhere.
In seasons' battle winter lost.

The whippoorwill might sing tonight
and I might see a spotted fawn
just as an owl takes to flight.
His hunt will end with the next dawn.

The new year's leaves have finally
push dead leaves off of the beech trees.
New growth hinting of what soon will be
while thick pollen will make me sneeze,