For Andy In Cameroon

In Cameroon


These huts are shaggy temples,
mossy mysteries.
I hear monsoon mantras,
chants, songs,
and the wailing of saxophones.

I stand with bleeding feet
on a mountain top,
dripping with sweat
with a leaky whiskey bag.
From here,
I fling thoughts
far,
to home, to homes,
to lost sleep,
warm and dry.

Just past my bare walls there are
ceremonial colors,
ceremonial swords,
ceremonial tears.

I have waterfalls,
thundering from my shoulders.
I climb above the canopy
to sit with birds,
above the smoking buses,
the dust and the mud.

I learn.
I follow my heart and prosper.

Mike O’Connell
2006