Harry Biosah

I love to sing this song
Emanating from feelings
That run deep, as a fountain
Draining into an ocean
...

Must I, a muse,
Drink from the cup of quietus
Like the Master Sculptor?
Or, die this lurid, subtle, heroic death
...

Stimela was not their song
Nor were they spewing vernomous curses
At the chu chu train
As in the miners voyage,
...

From the sweet, fresh aroma of sposh;
A pretentious, masquerading winter
In New York, New Jersey, the New-Hampshire white mountains,
To a simmering defiant sun in the coast of Florida and California,
...

Hello Mama, can you hear me?
Mama it's your son Uwadiegwu calling
You mean I should have known what time it is before calling?
No Impertinence Nne, but our elders say that
...

Africa my mother and father land,
You are the song on my lips
You are the rhythm in my dance
The land of the Serengeti
...

Brother,
We have arrived at the end of the tunnel,
Still we see no light...
On the turbulent road,
...

Amidst clear blue sky
Under swaying rafia palm,
The wise, bald, grey old man
Picked up his antiquated guitar,
...

The bespectacled, bald, old man,
The custodian of the Oracle's
Of the hills and caves,
Gnashed his tobacco tainted teeth,
...

Of shadows, satin and sapphire
Triple semblance of a kind
The lucid, refulgent rhythm of mankind
From metamorphosis to the hoof of twilight
...

As he lay motionless, drained
Like a depleted jumble
Stripped of every honor and dignity;
All he could mutter was:
...