The Shepard's Of Arcadia 14 Poem by Felix Emeka George

Posted - 06/30/2016: 11: 35: 09 AM | Felixgeorgei's Poems | Edit Topic
In Rites of funeral and prayer time

The Priest approaching, stretching his hands
Taking off the flat top covers and clothes,
Speaking the message in recitation,
For the faith of the man,
From mouth to heart of silence
The man of my father spoken to them
Confrontation words from the priest tutoring mouth
To the crying faces
In focusing on the corpses
Ceasing and releasing wandering souls to rest,

Then he says
"This death is evil and unnatural
It is not rustic death of our people
The wild wicked witches home
And away is to
Destroying their neighbors and families
As evil one in question of action
Will return to destroy

Then he gave out two fowls
In the name of their namesakes
He also gave out kola nut
Then circling their head with the right hand
He cast it towards the people and the bush
For the vengeance on earth he spelt his Oaths,
with their wrapper as a muffler
Silently and gently,
in the ridges lay the dead
In their last - lasting - home on the dust,
Laid in silence still and so deep
That they could be deaf and dumb
Like a flints pebble
The wasteful soul of men gone astray
Leaving alone the word and
people they love to rent
telling me,
I am on my own!

In these moment again
I remember
The past and the present,
Hour, and The future
dangling
Like a sap - laden - in loneliness.

ii

I am the lonely child
An orphan;
Like a splash of flash
In a lightening
On seeing
It like a shadow
This is far away from being real,
Where the lights travels to meet the earth
An imagination
when I travel and reached not
The ending earth,
Like a dying of the sun in the west,
A handful of earth dusted
On the gaps
Upon the wooden flats,
With a firmly promise of punishment
To the supposed killing,
And if it is by fate
And letting the law of divine
Flow over all.

My heart bleed and
Flow In air weakly;
The shivers running over me
Like an electric fish - stock
In force flow of tears
in the silence,
The memory in me stiff
While my limbs piled in drowsy
Like an oil palm in the chill of the
Harmattan wind

I have approached the two ridges
Of silence gaping hole
Where house my parent rest
And I bring up the iron - shovel
With gray, brown and black earth
I pour into the gaping holes
And so ends it
For my mother and Father relatives.