a thousand feet
trample the grass.
a whistle signals
the beginning.
suddenly,
a bag of wind flies
from foot to foot;
then to heads;
then to hands.
pursued so
aggressively
by uniformed males
of opposite teams,
one would think
it was filled with
weightless gold that
would multiply itself
once the bag passes
between two poles.
sporadically,
eager fingers falter
and Leather greets Ropes.
soon, the whistle signals
a ninety minute end.
the heavens resound,
men romance
and the grass is left
to nurse its wounds.
— 1998
WE DIVINE EMBRYOS
Beloved, Beloved!
Having experienced, understood
and deciphered the mysteries
in a chilly pool
of whispering darkness,
I rise,
gently,
emerging into the still glowing radiance
of precious moments we once knew and shared;
remember?
creating a spark to fire anew
attractions of we divine embryos,
we, notes in a cosmic symphony,
rhythms in a dance of gods . . .
vibrations in the beat of Life,
to those sweet melodies
attuned to YOUrs and MinE;
yea to that unique color
in the dazzling and infinite spectrum
which manifests and shines
glorious,
only when your soul and mine meet,
murmuring and merging in love,
spiritually.
Light and light eternal.
es deva Om anza
— September 20, 1995
WEEP NOT FOR DEAD LEAVES
This poem was written upon hearing of the death of Napoleon Ricks, a loving son, brother, husband, father, relative and friend. All who knew him felt the pain of losing him. Napoleon was dashing and handsome with a natural spontaneity . . . easy to laugh and affable in his interactions with all. His brother Henry and I were classmates at the College of West Africa in Monrovia.
I dedicate this poem to everyone who lost loved ones during the civil crisis in Liberia . . . a senseless war too brutal to be part of the divine plan. If I am allowed to speculate, this madness was brought on us by karma generated through decades of injustice. Though more than a quarter of a million people died, we must still hold on to our faith and continue to believe that there is a method to God's plan, no matter how incomprehensible it might be to us. Mourners, weep not for dead leaves.
It started to change overnight . . .
the bright brilliant green
began to fade
ever so slowly,
giving way to a pale yellow
that crept across the surface . . .
softly, gently,
almost imperceptibly,
like night stealing upon day
on a late March evening.
and so, Death conquered my dying leaf.
but as is birth, magnificent,
fascinating,
so is death:
the sharp contrast of hues,
dead by living together—
one bright yellow, while
the others displayed
spotted patterns of green and white—
animated the evolution of man
and painted a picture for we who
would stop to look,
and listen.
buried between two pages
of a Webster dictionary,
my dead leaf remains a sight of
wisdom, wonder and amazement . . .
God's wisdom, my wonder, the world's amazement,
that Life and Death,
partners on the road to eternity,
are two great manifestations
of the Master's handiwork.
Mourners, WEEP NOT FOR DEAD LEAVES!
instead, glorify the Creator of the universe,
for She giveth and He taketh away . . .
as it was in the beginning,
it is now and ever shall be,
world without end,
forever,
amen.
