The Writings of Norah

Years ago she lived and breath Aeons past, on earth she reigned A Southern portion way afar Some strange village she was birth From the gods brought to save the ruined An accord taken binding as tar Victory after victory she brought Never a weapon raised legends say Warriors falling not from fighting Conquest after conquest she hatched Arms relinquished never a gainsay Only standing, only talking A good tale therein lies a hitch Blessed the village, on her a curse The gods gifted, her love demanded Never a mortal should her heart twitch Lest all gained shall all vanquish Eloika an agreement demanded As it is always the circumstance One day he came from across A warrior unaffected by her stature Unconcerned of her beauty and stance Regarding her purpose as dross Yet to him her heart purr’d Desirous were the gods of her heart Fearful were the elders of their fate A haven amassed, a future in doubt For love felt, a cry is...

A river crossing the mossy land Its water a dreary murky flow Its depths a bottomless endless hollow From its bed arises an oracles wand To direct the people’s choice To its abyss the herald goes A human as all can see Pressed “nsanja” and a dry tea Walking in his weight on toes To take a message from the gods Dry he delves into the waters Unwet he arises from its pits                 The response a leader seat A calabash sort after From it the successor name The elders sit around waiting For the gods have spoken A leader has been chosen The messenger declaring A new chief to anoint The Heralds   

The crackling and cackling of sticks burning The distant sounds of owls hooting Children, parents attentively listening To the old man quietly speaking Complaints unheard even with insects biting campfire storytelling Shivers unseen with the wind blowing All are sitting with the fire blazing Listening to that old man talking Stories of time past, the future bringing Lores as old as the oroko spilling Tension in all sweetly sweeping Even as the old man is coughing It is the now, the future coming From the campfire, the words whispering For our traditions keep changing But old men will always keep telling

A river crossing the mossy land Its water a dreary murky flow Its depths a bottomless endless hollow From its bed arises an oracles wand To direct the people’s choice To its abyss the herald goes A human as all can see Pressed “nsanja” and a dry tea Walking in his weight on toes To take a message from the gods Dry he delves into the waters Unwet he arises from its pits                 The response a leader seat A calabash sort after From it the successor name The elders sit around waiting For the gods have spoken A leader has been chosen The messenger declaring A new chief to anoint  The Heralds    

The African woman shivers in dread The black mother trembles in pain Plagued by the limitations of her reach Unable to satisfy her hunger Unable to fulfill her desires. Hunger! not just for food nor for water Perishing! not just from famine nor drought Her blatant cry is for knowledge Her deepest pain for liberty For when the food will come And the thirst be satisfied, Where then would she be found?