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.
THOUGHTS OF A POETESS
Neofloetry, 2014.
Women: He
walked
from dusk
to dawn in purple damask
All: He must be rich
Men: He
smiled
for hours
exhibiting his powers
All: He must be mad
Youths: He
killed
for festivities
concealing shady activities
All: He must be a snitch
Women: He
jeered
behind closed doors
and claps as tears pours
All: He must be bad
Youths: He
drank
ate and laughed
sang and laughed
his heart pounded
All: He must be sick
Men: He
frowned
his heart pounded
his body surrounded
Women: He must be dying
Men: He is dying!
Youths: Must he die?
All: He has died!
Silence
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 ocean of that little girl’s heart
Whose eyes you see sunk in a hollow tunnel
That Alice tumbled in; wonderland
No wonder the land that fed her, stole her carved innocence
stained her in crimson red
And her housed cages no longer expand
to 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 playtime,
but of over-sized baggy eyes that hung loose around her frail waistline
You may have stumbled across her in one of your way out
at school, at church or in front of her family house
That harbored foxes and hounds lurking around her brightness
Your eyes may have caught hers, those hollow eyes
Without you knowing she is Uncle’s favorite niece; his lollipop holder
her sweet master
I mean, her Mama did a good job telling her how to serve an elder
“Do everything, don’t complain, Uncle 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
floating on her complacent conscience
Her mouth is sealed for fear of tormenting reeling pictures
That pulled at her blooming flower, just when she wasn’t ready for harvest season
For this reason, her cold nights began raising giant walls
Her tears trickled in a single flow, embracing Antarctica’s coldest offering
Her thoughts froze at the thirteenth hour of that young evening
By the side of the room, those blood-shot ogogoro eyes never left her side
Those crooked fingers hurried her zipper
Her echoing plea muffled by the wailing voices in that music box; a forceful communion
that very moment shook the foundation of her already torn heart
Her thoughts quickly bolted to Mama’s great advice
“Do everything, don’t complain, Uncle is the breadwinner”
Everything on fast track, her innocence seared
Leaving a bitter taste on the tongue of her present
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
