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The music is dead, buried in fading echoes of dreams.
Oh, ancient fathers, let me hear the Ngoma just for once
Boom… boom… cha… cha… doo… doo... kuchi… kuchi…
For my body and soul weep from simulated drums,
Just a moment of Ngoma on a tropical African night.
Remember the captivating smooth Kikuyus’ wriggles and swaggers?
Or the Giriamas’ down coast with consummating marshy leaps
Of warriors traversing through dense bushes like slithering ropes
And the fiestas of altering impeccable rhythms and swings.
And the Maasai rocketing from grounds of Savannah like platoons.
Boom… boom… the Luyhas’ Isikutis resonated invoking the phantoms.
The nights were so alive, beating, striking, clapping and stamping,
Dancing their hearts out, hips gyrating and feet stomping.
With harmonic melodies grappling with every lake, forest and misted lagoon.
The inexplicable pleasures in wild chatting, like besotted baboons.
Oh, ancient fathers, let me hear the Ngoma just for once
Boom… boom… cha… cha… doo… doo… kuchi… kuchi…
That live polyrhythmic sound, satisfying my soul in every ounce.
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Writer Profile
dave
Poetry is passion; my passion - It is the voice of the voiceless. I write poems through inspiration from day to day events and experiences in my life. With what happens in our society I hope to create awareness, inspire positive responses and in turn, learn from others.
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Comments
:) R Kahendi | Apr 24th, 2010
Nice poem!
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