A poem a wrote recently (finished today) and will perform at the Lively Bird festival 26th May…if i manage to conquer my nerves, memorize my poems and finish off the commissioned piece I’m contracted to write . AAAARRRGH! pooing myself…. anyway here it is written about some one i have a crush on, maybe one day i’ll perform it to him or even better, have the gutts to ask him out! i would appreciate feed back….(and tips on asking people out)
His Hands
by Ioney Smallhorne
His hands are divinely carved.
Chiselled knuckles protrude his immaculate umber skin like noble mountains
And his ochre palms are grand sand dunes.
He sits composed and majestic,
Delicately evoking historical scenes from
The memory of 600 years of his family.
The ornate calabash resonates
Musical Mandika parables
His audience become driftwood
Manipulated by a ceremonious ocean of melody
Harmonized waves engulfing all faculty.
This is the sound of jewels if they could sing.
His dextrous fingers are traditionally trained
Dance unrestrained with the 22 strings
Or draw out rhythms form sacrificial skins
Replicating the beat of Antelope stampede.
He transports me to romanticised landscapes
With the sounds his hands make;
Henna decorated skin,
Religious pilgrims,
Sand storms and the sun kissing the horizon
Sound induced illusions my mind sees
When it connects to his musicology
Tags: Ioney Smallhorne
