POETIC JUSTICE 2 – Mshinaram Warigon Ahrey

 

Village

DREAMING OF MY VILLAGE OF DREAMS
As the rickety tired bus ticketed and ricketted
Finally along the picketed road that
Snaked to my village of dreams
My rear, firm and ready on gear at the rear of the blustering bus
My mind wandered along the long memory lane
Clear memories I hold dear, flashing and flooded back
Like long lost prisoners at the gate of freedom
I recall the long narrow faces of the tombstones
That gardened the welcoming outskirts like sentinels
The expansive grounds, wide and waiting while we worn out the playgrounds
Yes, we play till we worn out the playground
The sea of long, lush grasses habouring the grasshoppers
That once salted and roasted brought rare smiles to our bushed faces
Every hut was garlanded by the green grasses that tickle our bare feet
The nights were bejeweled by the diamond studded-stars above
Twinkling in mischief as we sing our moonlight songs passed
From the generations of old
To behold once again the November hue of the ripened row of golden cornfields
That awaits to impregnate our stoic granaries
My eyes brighten at the thought of the varied evening aromas
That tease our nostrils and tempt our rumbling bellies
The salad of sounds from the ravine, the trees and the huts find a mix with
Mama, as the rising smoke from her heath and papa’s pipes all blend mystery unmatched
The bus lumbered still, down the slope and up the hill
Aching away to drop its heavy loads.
My patience wearing thin, my anticipation swelling and swirling.
For my pockets are lined with the gems of my adventures
Which I yearn to share with my kin and kith
To watch their enraptured faces as I regale them
With the tales of the city of angels lined with gold
Traipsing deeper into my boyhood fantasies
The droopy eyes of my mind fail to register the now lonely road
Devoid of pots balanced on headgeared heads
Or the old farmers’ bicycles slewing towards the village at sunset
To lick the last drops of their hot burkutu
Out of my reverie when the bus halted with a lurch
Pasted on my face were the fierce looking soldiers
Wielding guns and beaming mean streaks
A travesty, a roadblock at the gate of my village?
I shake my head from this dreary dream
Or perhaps I was not dreaming
No, not yet.
(c)2016

 

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About williwash

A writer, a human rights activist, an adventurer and a poet.
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