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Tony Tokunbo Fernandez

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The Beauty in the Dark
Soldiers of peace
It came from the sea
Friends or lovers
Is life a Poem
Umbrellas and Pockets
An Island in my Thought

THE BEAUTY IN THE DARK

Last night I felt the beauty in the dark,
Warm whispers spelt upon the mystery of a stream,
And in the stillness of the night,
I kissed the moon,
For lost children wonder upon the valleys of this earth.

Last Night I swayed amongst the rivers of a life,
And through the thunders I found your smile,
But in the silence of your eyes you said goodnight,
And in the richness of your grasp I felt a cry.

But Africa,
In the spirit of your song,
I knew your shadow,
And in the richness of your grace I took that train,
For the howling drums in my Mothers backyard
Awakes my spirit,
And In the corners of your eyes,
I have shared a story.
A dream … A life…

But now it is dark, and I cannot see you,
And the Voices from my elders begin to drown,
Now it is late and I cannot hear you,
For time separates the marshlands of this open forest,
Where the breasts of this earth
Feed the souls of my many brothers.

Tonight I drank music in a foreign lake,
I sang history on an empty shore,
And when I danced the trees began to shiver,
For the Voices in my dark,
Became too dark… too firm… too real

The night is young and beautiful,
The shadows are still wandering in their hundreds,
From a distance I hear the crows of the cock,
And so I danced,
For in your story,
Life found a new voice
And In your glory hope found a new song.

SOLDIERS OF PEACE

We shall eat cassava for breakfast
And drink from gourds of coconut cream.
We shall dance in the "Mangrove" naked
With our pockets empty and our shoulders high

The Village died on a Sunday morning.
I still recall the spirit of the cemetery,
Haunting the air in blind starvation.
But Now.

We do not need a shepherd to guide
Our flock across the delta.
Our future lives in the heart of children.
We are who we are,
A people.

It came from the sea

We have been fetching water for many years,
Splashing through showers of heavenly falls.
Our buckets have fed a thousand children.
The local pillar is a home of wisdom.

The swamps invoke a tribal tune,
reciting the rituals of the listening forest.
There once lived a myth behind a river,
foolishly floating with passionate pride,
Its mouth sipped the Omen
Of the wondering waves,
In calm shores of stable silence.

Friends or Lovers

Friends or Lovers, What should
it be? The game is over when the day has come.
We have danced the night of a dreamlike session.
You wined, I dined and the show begun.
I drank from a laughter that shed a new light
And I am naked even before your very eyes.
I am restless by the intrigue in the air.

The birds become lawless in their flight from freedom,
As I thrive on the mystery that governs your sight.
And who is this woman that has travelled through hills?
What is this moment that has left me kind?
The summer is over, and today has begun,
So what should it be, Friends or lovers?

Is Life a Poem

Is Life a poem?
Where do I start?
The clouds do feed the world with rain,
A token to the hunger of starving plains.
The warm breeze shook the sea;
Change befriends time in a phase of mystery.

Is Life a poem?
Then where does one stop?
Space…Air… Thoughts… Lines,
Colour awakes to the tune of melody,
Music awaits the rhythm from the sea.

If joy is a poem,
Then when does one start?
Laughter that breeds a brightness, I seek
Sunshine that feeds the evening with treats,
Honey and Sugar, a mixture so sweet
and then you sleep, so deep.

Is sadness a poem?
When hardship became
Grief… Pain… Fear… Sighs
A gloom that paints the boredom in the sky,
My teardrops portray a forgotten river
And this was the time I cried out Why?

Am I a poet?
Where does it end?
Mirror reflect age and reason,
Moments project the source of a season.
I speak to the trees on a golden morn,
And examine my needs in the heart of a song,
For the heart of my story
Is magic reborn.
If I am a poet,
Then Life has begun.

Umbrellas and Pockets

The skin of the sky is gloomy and grey.
Accompanied by the soberness of the nervous cloud.
The buildings are militant,
Lacking light and flavour.
It's a city of wind and cold thoughts,
As silence forbids laughter
In the cemetery of the "Underground"

From Hackney to Balham,
The streets are haunted with a solemn harshness.
Follow the crowd, but "Mind the Gap"
This is London.

An Island in my Thought

The strength from the forest feeds the nation.
I sit and watch the day go by,
I hear the soil crying, yearning and waiting.
My crops are hungry, the plants are thirsty,
for strength betrays the spirit of the land
And my people are suffering.

Dark moments, still hours, each page in Life is in motion.
Each lines a curse to seek,
But Strength betrays the spirit of my growth,
Strength betrays my nation.

The pangs of pain dig deep;
They cut through the hearts of a struggling crowd
And pierce the hopes of many.
My barn is the home for the squeaking mice.
Silently, father weeps,
But his tears are not enough food for the land.
Many have come;
Many have gone upon the forests of this earth.
Yet the Gods are blind to the curse in my spirit,
Where anguish has found a new home
And my hopes are imprisoned by the claws of poverty

Thunder Lightening
Then the raging downpour from the crying sky.
The bowl is bare and empty.
I hear the roars of the raging lion,
Pounding through forests, racing through hills.
What are my hopes for a new tomorrow?

Men fall, Men rise,
Men rise to fall once more,
And the nation conforms to this unpleasant rhythm of trauma
Where the stings from my father lives within the souls of many,
For troubled minds wonder through the prisons of this earth,
Their aimless spirits…
Wondering… Seeking… Finding.
Motion through the dark is a curse to the shepherd.
Time is a granted option to move,
But how can we move when our bellies are empty.
How can we sing when our memories are a collection
Of tragic thoughts,
Despair, Grief, Survival, Hunger, Confusion, Poverty
My people, when will it end?
We have sat upon this rock for too long
And the burden is a heavy one,
My worry is the children who may not live to see tomorrow.
The forest waits.
The land is hungry.
Where is the strength of my people?
Time splits across the plains of a phase…
The doom spell of a history
I yearn for a new hour,
For the sky is dark,
Feel the grief in my heart,
The pain in my thoughts,
Bare bowls set before the naked sun.
Hear the crack in my voice,
The fear in my song,
But the Gods laugh,
Deaf to the tunes of a beggar child
And like a swaying tree through the mystic wind,
My son staggers through the torments of the seventh hill,
Imprisoned dreams bottled hopes.
The freedom of bondage is a blessing to the cursed,
Where many have risen and many shall rise to fall.