Monthly Archives: November 2014



A poem
…is a poem
is a poem…
…is a poem

Whichever way
A Poem is a poem
However you write them

A poem is still a poem
Rusty, jagged or straight
Elizabethan or African

A poem
…is a poem
is a poem…
…for them

…No apologies

JAGGED EXPRESSIONS (Run over words for my ba(r)d guys)
Neofloetry, 2014..




His eyes beheld her frame
His body quivered under that cold rain
From a distance in decades, this is no game
Her echoing love song brought him pain
His tearful voice rang at the mention of her name
He called out severally, reached out for reminiscence
He looked harder
Her picture made his heart race faster
Her pale frame remained in his mind, still
Everything before him further made no sense
Then by noon, he chose to harbor a pill
Within his body to feel
Her presence
His mind stared at the jagged peel
Of yesterday’s dream
Of love songs never played
For his heart to mend
Oh! How he hates love songs
That never played
For their hearts to blend.

Neofloetry, 2014.



Women: He
from dusk
to dawn in purple damask

All: He must be rich

Men: He
for hours
exhibiting his powers

All: He must be mad

Youths: He
for festivities
concealing shady activities

All: He must be a snitch

Women: He
behind closed doors
and claps as tears pours

All: He must be bad

Youths: He
ate and laughed
sang and laughed
his heart pounded

All: He must be sick

Men: He
his heart pounded
his body surrounded

Women: He must be dying

Men: He is dying!

Youths: Must he die?

All: He has died!


JAGGED EXPRESSIONS (Poli-ticks and What-Nots)
Neofloetry, 2014



I have written this poem to remind you of the raft of burden
Floating upon that deep wide ocean of that little girl’s heart
Whose eyes you see sunk in a hollow tunnel
That Alice tumbled in till she fell back first in wonderland
No wonder the land that fed her, stole her carved innocence
Dipped, stained her in crimson red
And her caged ribs could no longer expand
Following the rhythmic thumps from within her bare chest
Her miniature drumstick fingers that never played
On the drums of exciting childish moments
Her feet that never walked the length and breadth
Of over-sized baggy lands that hung firmly around her frail waist
You may have stumbled across her in one of your favorite places
Playing innocently in front of her parent’s house
That harbored foxes and hounds lurking around her
Forming dark shadows that crept hungrily along her path
Your eyes may have caught hers, those hollow eyes
Without you knowing she is Papa’s favorite daughter, his lollipop holder
He is her favorite sweet supplier, her sweet-giving master
I mean, her Mama did a good job telling her how to serve an elder
“Do everything, don’t complain, Papa is the breadwinner”
See, aside from life’s battery on her already plucked petal
She has learnt to love the sweets that the ‘Uncle’ next door offers her
Her love for brown sugar lollipops slowly rising to the top
Landing on a floating raft on the shallow waters of complacency
Her teenage lips crossing bodily borders, up and down
Her mouth is sealed for fear of tormenting reeling pictures set on fast forward
That once thawed at her blooming flower, just when she wasn’t ready for harvest season
For this reason, her cold nights begin raising giant walls around her
Her tears trickling in a single flow, embracing Antarctica’s coldest offering
Her thoughts froze at the thirteenth hour of that fine young evening
When minds loosen their grip on daylight, not deceiving
By the side of the room,
Those blood-shot ogogoro eyes never left her side
Those crooked fingers hurried down the zipper
Her already torn heart shaken to its’ very foundation
Her echoing plea; muffled by the loud wailing voices in the music box
Those hands grabbed her leftover future
Yielding to an unexpected he-she heart-rending communion
That day, crimson red blood was served
Wetting the parched throat of that blanket
Her thoughts quickly bolting out to Mama’s great advice
This, she did not think twice
“Do everything, don’t complain, Papa is the breadwinner”
Everything danced on fast track, her innocence seared, her life now bitter
Her life meaningless, a spreadsheet of emptiness
I have written this poem to remind you
Of the many girls whose blooming flowers were plucked 
Still being plucked and locked up in the dungeons of their consciences
Hoping that someday, someone will hear their echoing voices