His Hands…

20 May

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



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