The Drum

 

     Where do they go to,

When silence deafens,

     Do the multitudes swallow them

As if, like us, we are all,

Zombies of a decaying paradise?

 

     To see him sit there silent,

Makes notions of absurdity,

And yet, many adorn tiring attire -

And dust and,

     It is African,

Not meant for sand to gather

But be polished from its form

And that of the love affair

The player beholds,

 

     The distant rhythm

Cajoles the sense to roll,

And asking, I want to hear its

Breath upon my ears,

To feel it in my soul and

Dance like dancing means

More than a cordial invite

For appraisal,

     Like there’s no tomorrow,

There is no tomorrow,

Just here and now with no

Outside illusions,

      Just the drummer,

     The dancer,

     The Djembe,

     And the rhythm

Of the ancestors -

We neglect upon the West!

 

 

Michael J Waite 27th October 2015.