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 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