To Janet Of Ole Beijing(Song Of Mosydshepherd) Poem by Mosi Mustapha Gomina

The roses chime in spiral sway
A court of flowers chant in gray
As ere-like bands in locusts' knell
Aflamed and bound in Janet's spell.

The twigs of day are curled in awe
Behold an art at odds with flaw
Behold the being//behold how soon
The day is night//the sun is moon.

For Jane of rare and fairy kind
For Jane of mild and lustre clime
Make quills of bleak and eerie bands
Make scrolls of vast but blanded sands.

The skin is charred as hue of night
Of staring stars in turfs of light
The hymns of tides yet tell her grace
The helms of winds yet dance in praise.

Unfurl the braids of age and Time
Enfold the stars in clad benign
Now hem the breath of mocking age
To cease the spew of senile rage.

And men, O men of golden ways
In tombs of speechless Lethe's gaze
Let psalms of praise be made for Jane
Let threads of death be made aflame.

And men, O men in breathing urn
With nimble tongues to please the sun
Awaken gaze and pick a peek
The eyes yet thirst for beauty leak.

Like elms in boulevard and bay
Embraced by motif locks of fay
This lass is brewed as ole Beijing
Behold the grace//behold the being.

Compare with Jane, the silver skies
Compare with Jane, the cosmic ties
Uphill of yonder dreams in rest
Compare with Jane, the Balaam blest.

The tresses carved to gild her head
Alike to hay on austere mead
The pathed walks in hue of night
Yet bind the eyes and set alight.

As pollen seeds of edelweiss
The eyes are scraped from saffron ice
The pupils match the runes of gold
That tame the eyes in Lethe hold.

The valley trail aloft her breath
Is best compared to poles of Earth
The tunnels carved to muffle air
Where lies a kind that stands a pair?

Just down the vale of Janet's nose
A fairer pair of voice repose
The doors of words and window sill
The creator carved as tubal mill.

Behold the curves that fault her chin
So fair and smooth as meadow green
The neck's a path to Heaven town
Upon which mortal gazes drown.

The ribbon blades that guard the heart
Aglow with skin to wreathe the art
With golden breasts to hem a child
And nib-like rings of Life to gild.

The navel speaks of salient grind
The stomach warns of supine bind
A lone embrace of lurking eyes
Is tamed to eaves of senile size.

The yews are joned by berried glebe
Mosaic as spiders caught aweb
A crimson portal spun to hold
And yield the rune of births untold.

To Jane who lent me oars to row
Whither I go//wither I grow
As ere-lke carts in drowning knell
Aflamed and bound in Janet's spell.