MY PURPOSE
Everyday is a new beginning
Another opportunity to make things right
To again redeem some karma that has been talked about yet
not visible by a listener
Dreaming I search
for my purpose
A star of many colours
Within one person
Born under a special moon
Even though I work hard to gain some experience, money or
knowledge
I look within from time to time
To receive wisdom for my life and where it leads me
Alas my purpose
My purpose to succeed
in hunger for what
is true
To cry with happiness
To nuture every individual around me
To raise a child to heights unknown to it
To believe in trust
My purpose is
To be myself and live
OLUWEMIMO BONUOLA
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PRAISE IS WHAT I DO
When ink comes to words
And thoughts begin to pour
Rappers call it bars
And because of that they are referred to, as stars
An asterisk is a simple star with extra wings
When ink approaches paper, even the senses will sing
Praise is what I do
When I love being in my shoes
A man’s destiny isn’t his to choose
And fates often might make us subjects of abuse
But
Praise is what I do when,
Happiness becomes life’s excuse
When panting hearts slow down
And smiles replace frowns
And tightened gowns is adored by the town
And all we could do is wave
And revel in the stage which paved ways become
Praise is what I do
When I heard Alicia ask the question why we are here
Even when life appears not to be fair
And being overtaken a tired feet becomes aware
Praise is what I do,
Praise is what I do
When the scenery delights and I’m in awe of the view
Praise is what I do
When woes find ends without a part two
Praise is the bubble in my saliva
My silence when I’m most thankful
Praise is all the grace you can see
Even when it seems I’m lost at sea
Praise is the grace
When you wish to be in my shoes because you think I’m a
disgrace
Praise is the grace in the measured paces of joy
When it sweeps in like the winds
And act like the suspense in the plot
As you may have discovered, life is but a play
And we are but casts
Scattered on the earth
By hands of mercy
Praise is like lace
It has holes
It’s not hard to see
Praise is like a dish
I have come with the biggest bowl
And I have been served
In portions larger than I deserve
Praise is the experience
Like a sweet’s wrapper, memories of an enjoyable existence
Worthy of confessions
Without the strain of normal concessions
Praise is what I do
It is my current identity
The emblem I wear in my heart
Praise is what I do
When joy goes on break
It is my pledge to hope
Praise is the source
Heartbeat of the deed
Praise is grace you can trace
Praise is what I do
When I’m proud of my place in the array
Praise is the check for my realities
It is what I do when there’s a need to grip the whole of
my sanity
Praise is the name of my sister
The one born, three months after easter
Praise is what is left, the scraps at the scene of a
disaster
Praise is what I do, when doors open without my possession
of the keys
Praise is what I do, which will never cease
Praise is the name of the future
The certainty even when we are not so sure
Praise is what lures me into strength
Praise is what I do to show my understanding
Praise is the grace which follows me
A warrior’s melting ice, the substance which makes him
meek
Akeem Adetayo Oyalowo
January 4, 2015
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RHETORICS
OF REDRESS
Rend the veil of silence
With the blunt bleating of the lamb,
The price is paid;
The slain are the victors.
Blood stamps
On our door posts,
Let death's angel pass;
We are reborn.
Let the rum red sea
To her forlorn bed return,
Baptize Pharaohs
Who won't let us free.
Freedom they say
Is a life sentence,
Yet give me cyanide
Than have me forever enslaved.
I stand between death and the seven pillars,
Passed the four walls, entered the circle
And through the blue door;
Headed for the kingdom in the sun.
Home of the damned,
The let downs
The hopelessly hopeless
And the not good enough.
Sing no more about the rain,
For losing all hope is freedom.
Let autumn afternoons
Melt December dreams.
Rend the veil of silence
With the blunt bleating of the lamb,
The price is paid;
The slain are the victors.
Blood stamps
On our door posts,
Let death's angel pass;
We are reborn.
Let the rum red sea
To her forlorn bed return,
Baptize Pharaohs
Who won't let us free.
Freedom they say
Is a life sentence,
Yet give me cyanide
Than have me forever enslaved.
I stand between death and the seven pillars,
Passed the four walls, entered the circle
And through the blue door;
Headed for the kingdom in the sun.
Home of the damned,
The let downs
The hopelessly hopeless
And the not good enough.
Sing no more about the rain,
For losing all hope is freedom.
Let autumn afternoons
Melt December dreams.
Its all burned alive by time,
So we look forward to new hard times.
We are at our worst, yet we won't yield;
For we are too young to kneel .
What would Jesus do with a weapon?
Go-a-dogfight?
We are always losing blood;
Where there is fire, we will carry gasoline.
Love is red,
I plant funeral grade flowers,
Cast upon the waters your hate bread;
Beware the manifestations of anger.
My heart beats in breakdowns,
There's a new friend request,
Death is just a touch away;
Look up at the stars and you are gone.
I'm done,
Done smashing pumpkins,
Done taking care of the dead fish;
No! No more riding dead horses.
I'll fly again tonight,
I can see my house from here.
Beware they who never run but catch up,
Who said those born in the gutter must end up in the port?
SOONEST
NEW FLAME
Tongue
of a dying flame
Flickering
Insistent
tongue held on
Lapping
the imagination of what used to be
On
stunted wick
That
flame held on weakly
Gathering
what it could of the run out wax
At
the close of day
The
year’s curtain was drawn
Hemorrhaging
to the end,
It
did not exceed the day.
The
year is referred to in a tense for the past
Her
wax expended to just a blob
Drained
by the heat of its activeness
That
smoke of wick
Went
with their hopes and dreams
Elements
with which candles are made
In
their minds at the start of year
Here
another journey begins
Again
the joys and mirth are heard
As
the latest candle is lit
From
the flame of the year that sank
When
with the strength of its last flicker
It
passed the light to this waxen lamp
Hope
is the presence of a new candle
Its
light they bear to see the path
As
they scurry in search of the way
Leading
to attainment of self esteem
Like
lightings at night attracts moths in flight
Shall
they attract others of their type
When
their brightness shall lure all sight
If
they achieve while the new flame lasts.
CHUKWUEMEKA
Jan 8th 2015
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BLEEDING HEART
How come I can't words to describe my feelings?
Why is there no colour to paint my sufferings?
A continuous churning deep down my tummy
Feeling like a feeling that needs attending
It feels like love and then hate
Or more like the love I never had
The room I'm in
Through which the door I never passed
I write to vomit this gloom inside of me
Yet I feel my mind moping
Moping at how ineffective my words
Had dispatched its sorrow
Tears shadowed by the falling rain
Making a perfect mix
For the faux called love
So it could toy on helpless hearts the more
Life would have been a lot easier absent love
Life without love would have been a rot
But why bring together
That which you would never accommodate
Why light a fire that was never made to burn
Why create a smile that would only make one cry
These are questions I never meant to ask
Naught for my pen's ineptitude to ferry my heart's twinge
Festal dance on broken bottles
Feigned happiness on broken hearts
How many hearts do I have to break?
To appease your thirsty tongue
How many hearts of mine do I sacrifice
To find a being in your name
A man has only so many hearts
To sacrifice in the name of love
I feel too pained to keep my pen upright
Not at the thought of a beloved
Cause there never was one
All were just ink to fuel the pen of this injured poet
Weep but not with my eyes
I feel my heart drowning
In the tears of my mind
Where the rain would never wash away its drib
These are words on these pages I engrave my heart
Blemished by the use of words
Chipping away edges of my feelings
Never making it whole and never leaving it alone
I lay down my pen now
With hopes I might pick it up again
With another tear in my mind
I write the words of my bleeding heart.
Why is there no colour to paint my sufferings?
A continuous churning deep down my tummy
Feeling like a feeling that needs attending
It feels like love and then hate
Or more like the love I never had
The room I'm in
Through which the door I never passed
I write to vomit this gloom inside of me
Yet I feel my mind moping
Moping at how ineffective my words
Had dispatched its sorrow
Tears shadowed by the falling rain
Making a perfect mix
For the faux called love
So it could toy on helpless hearts the more
Life would have been a lot easier absent love
Life without love would have been a rot
But why bring together
That which you would never accommodate
Why light a fire that was never made to burn
Why create a smile that would only make one cry
These are questions I never meant to ask
Naught for my pen's ineptitude to ferry my heart's twinge
Festal dance on broken bottles
Feigned happiness on broken hearts
How many hearts do I have to break?
To appease your thirsty tongue
How many hearts of mine do I sacrifice
To find a being in your name
A man has only so many hearts
To sacrifice in the name of love
I feel too pained to keep my pen upright
Not at the thought of a beloved
Cause there never was one
All were just ink to fuel the pen of this injured poet
Weep but not with my eyes
I feel my heart drowning
In the tears of my mind
Where the rain would never wash away its drib
These are words on these pages I engrave my heart
Blemished by the use of words
Chipping away edges of my feelings
Never making it whole and never leaving it alone
I lay down my pen now
With hopes I might pick it up again
With another tear in my mind
I write the words of my bleeding heart.
HABEEB
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KAINOS- THE
HUNT FOR RED OCTOBER
The hunt for red October.
The search for the new.
The novel; the super
nova.
What the Greeks called
kainos.
The news is not new.
By the time it comes out in the
news papers so called, it is old.
Old like an Oldsmobile.
Then breaking news.
And even that after it is broken
like kola nut
Washed down with Chelsea, poured out in
libation to ancient gods
It immediately ceases to be new.
Like the old year subsumed into
the new and asking the old question.
What is new?
Why will things change
because the dates on the calendar
changed?
Or the names on the ballot boxes?
On the book covers?
On the records- Hansard of legislative
deliberation?
On the covers of music beats or downloads
When the sources are the same and
the fashions derived?
The names change but the factors,
factotums and factories are the same.
Sweat shops in Vietnam, Cambodia,
Myanmar, Bangladesh.
Different names.
Same workers.
Different deals depending on
quality controls.
Nothing new.
Same difference whatever that means.
Searching for red October-
Hunting for the new.
New deal. New
way.
New wave. New
approaches to old situations.
Looking for poema- the new
creation.
A new species of being that never
existed before.
New words. New
thoughts.
New goals. New hopes, aspirations and resolutions.
New information .New processes of
thought and ways and means.
Ways of being.
If at last we stay with the old
and decrepit we end up as Einstein's madmen
ANDREW WHYTE
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A WRONG PATH
LEADS NORTH
If you found me up north
Do kindly bring me home
For i must have lost my way
In the gloomy ambience of social
malady.
Send me back to the west
Where i shall put my burden to
rest
Face hunger than face a meal in a
bomb vest.
If you found me up there
Where i have learnt to grow in
fear
And the loss of a limb does not
bring me to despair,
Do carry me on your shoulder,
Or place me in the silence of a
boulder
To shield me from the cry of a
toddler.
Yet you call me al-majiri
For I firmly stretch out a bowl
To be filled with alms
Or nourish from the crumbs that
leave your palms.
I run after you at daylight
with hands stretched to ease my
plight,
I welcome you with songs strange
to your ears
The melody of which pricks my
little mind.
Now that death meant nothing
But like the passing wind along
the Dala hill
Settling on the furs of grazing
animals
While sniffing the stench of
human carcasses.
We watch the north
bleed
From the harmful
grenade of greed.
A wrong path leads
north
Do bring me safely to
port
let me set sail on
the sea of human dignity
Or die silently in
the shivering face of cold
Lest i be made a tool
for your destruction,
With my bowl calling
for your coin
I will gladly accept
whatever comes from your loin.
(C) Ayinla Muyideen Adeleke 2014
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THE QUEST
The sun sets slowly on the horizon
Thousands of Birds fly to the
East
Others search for the path to
Albion
Where Beauty still lives with the
Beast
Turning the pages of Life's album
We see faces of unwelcome guests
Trepidation fills our kingdom
Where lays our hope? South or
West?
When our fingerprints are born
and worn
Would the Dove win the quest?
Until the silver veil of the
future is torn
Our hearts quiver within our
chests
As the sun rises slowly at dawn
The Eagle no longer rests
Grasshoppers prepare for the
storm
The quest for the rock’s
vest
Erhio January 2015
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TO BECOME
NEW
The river is dry
This emptiness!
Devoid of life
Filled with silent longing
As ignorance shelters the wisdom
within
At the first light of a new era
The past era is written
Indelibly engraved in eternity
In whose shadows will the sun be?
In the city of light
Where the sun is but a shadow
My journey’s route
Too many roads I choose
None to self-discovery
To fill this void
And awaken the yearning
To become new
Ifeanyi Okwosha January 2015
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